HHamHI 
.•BBffMBBBBBB 

••HBH^^HBRBHBHH 

•$4iBf-i:v;:  ••:.:".-;:; 

HnH 

•••••9BBHn&raHBE&H8«9Il 


i^m^i 

m 


m^^n^ra^ra 

^^IHH^H 


i  LIBRARY    \ 

UHWERS1TY  OF 


A  BOOK  OF 
BURLESQUES 


BY  //.  L.  MENCKEN 

VENTURES    INTO   VERSE 

GEORGE    BERNARD   SHAW :      HIS    PLAYS 

MEN   VERSUS  THE    MAN 

With  R.  R.  La  Monte 

A    LITTLE    BOOK    IN    C    MAJOR 
A    BOOK    OF   CALUMNY 

[The  above  books  are  out  of  print] 
THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 
A  BOOK  OF  BURLESQUES 
IN  DEFENSE  OF  WOMEN 
A  BOOK  OF  PREFACES 
PREJUDICES:    FIRST  SERIES 

[The   above   may    be    had   at   all 
bookstores] 

THE    AMERICAN    LANGUAGE 

[Ne<w  edition  ready  IQ2I~\ 


A     BOOK    OF 

BURLESQUES 

ByH.      L.       MENCKEN 


PUBLISHED  AT  THE  BORZOI  •  NEW  YORK  •  BY 

A    LF    R    E    D-A-KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


LOAN  STACK 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    BTATE8   OF   AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  DEATH:  A  PHILOSOPHICAL  DISCUS 
SION  11 

II.  FROM  THE  PROGRAMME  OF  A  CON 
CERT  27 

III.  THE  WEDDING:  A  STAGE  DIRECTION    51 

IV.  THE  VISIONARY  71 

V.  THE   ARTIST:   A   DRAMA  WITHOUT 

WORDS  83 

VI.  SEEING  THE  WORLD  105 

VII.  FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  THE  DEVIL  135 

VIII.  LITANIES  FOR  THE  OVERLOOKED        149 

IX.  ASEPSIS:  A  DEDUCTION  IN  SCHERZO 

FORM  159 

X.  TALES  OF  THE  MORAL  AND  PATHO 
LOGICAL  183 

XI.  THE  JAZZ  WEBSTER  201 

XII.  THE  OLD  SUBJECT  213 

XIII.  PANORAMAS  OF  PEOPLE  223 

XIV.  HOMEOPATHICS  231 
XV.  VERS  LIBRE  237 

199 


The  present  edition  includes  some  epigrams 
from  UA  Little  Book  in  C  Major,"  now  out  of 
print.  To  make  room  for  them  several  of  the 
smaller  sketches  in  the  first  edition  have  been 
omitted.  Nearly  the  whole  contents  of  the  book 
appeared  originally  in  The  Smart  Set.  The  ref 
erences  to  a  Europe  not  yet  devastated  by  war 
and  an  America  not  yet  polluted  by  Prohibition 
show  that  some  of  the  pieces  first  saw  print  in 
far  better  days  than  these. 

H.  L.  M. 
February  1,  1920. 


I. -DE A  TH 


I.— Death.     A  Philosophical 
Discussion 


THE  back  parlor  of  any  average  Ameri 
can  home.     The  blinds  are  drawn  and 
a  single  gas-jet  burns  feebly.     A  dim 
suggestion  of  festivity:  strange  chairs t 
the  table  pushed  back,  a  decanter  and  glasses. 
A     heavy,     suffocating,     discordant    scent     of 
flowers — roses,  carnations,  lilies,  gardenias.    A 
general  stuffiness  and  mugginess,  as  if  it  were 
raining  outside,  which  it  isnft. 

A  door  leads  into  the  front  parlor.  It  is 
open,  and  through  it  the  flowers  may  be  seen. 
They  are  banked  about  a  long  black  box  with 
huge  nickel  handles,  resting  upon  two  folding 
horses.  Now  and  then  a  man  comes  into  the 
front  room  from  the  street  door,  his  shoes 
squeaking  hideously.  Sometimes  there  is  a 
woman,  usually  in  deep  mourning.  Each  visi 
tor  approaches  the  long  black  box,  looks  into 
it  with  ill-concealed  repugnance,  snuffles  softly, 
and  then  backs  off  toward  the  door.  A  clock 
on  the  mantel-piece  ticks  loudly.  From  the 

11 


12  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

street  come  the  usual  noises — a  wagon  rattling, 
the  clang  of  a  trolley  car's  gong,  the  shrill  cry 
of  a  child. 

In  the  back  parlor  six  pallbearers  sit  upon 
chairs,  all  of  them  bolt  upright,  with  their 
hands  on  their  knees.  They  are  in  their  Sun 
day  clothes,  with  stiff  white  shirts.  Their  hats 
are  on  the  floor  beside  their  chairs.  Each 
wears  upon  his  lapel  the  gilt  badge  of  a  fra 
ternal  order,  with  a  crepe  rosette.  In  the 
gloom  they  are  indistinguishable;  all  of  them 
talk  in  the  same  strained,  throaty  whisper.  Be 
tween  their  remarks  they  pause,  clear  their 
throats,  blow  their  noses,  and  shuffle  in  their 
chairs.  They  are  intensely  uncomfortable. 
Tempo:  Adagio  lamentoso,  with  occasionally  a 
rise  to  andante  maesto.  So: 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 

Who  woulda  thought  that  he  woulda  been 
the  next? 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  you  never  can  tell. 

THIRD   PALLBEARER 

(An  oldish  voice,  oracularly.)  We're  here 
to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 


Death.     A  Philosophical  Discussion  13 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

I  seen  him  no  longer  ago  than  Chewsday. 
He  never  looked  no  better.  Nobody  would 
have — 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

I  seen  him  Wednesday.  We  had  a  glass  of 
beer  together  in  the  Huffbrow  Kaif.  He  was 
laughing  and  cutting  up  like  he  always  done. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

You  never  know  who  it's  gonna  hit  next. 
Him  and  me  was  pallbearers  together  for  Hen 
Jackson  no  more  than  a  month  ago,  or  say  five 
weeks. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 

Well,  a  man  is  lucky  if  he  goes  off  quick. 
If  I  had  my  way  I  wouldn't  want  no  better  way. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 

My  brother  John  went  thataway.  He 
dropped  like  a  stone,  settin'  there  at  the  sup 
per  table.  They  had  to  take  his  knife  out  of 
his  hand. 

THIRD   PALLBEARER 
J  had  an  uncle  to  do  the  same  thing,  but 


14  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

without  the  knife.     He  had  what  they  call  ap- 
pleplexy.     It  runs  in  my  family. 


FOURTH  PALLBEARER 
They  say  it's  in  his'n,  too. 

FIFTH   PALLBEARER 
But  he  never  looked  it. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

No.      Nobody  woulda   thought   he  woulda 
been  the  next. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 

Them  are  the  things  you  never  can  tell  any 
thing  about. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
Ain't  it  true! 

THIRD   PALLBEARER 

We're  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 
(A  pause.     Feet  are  shuffled.     Somewhere 
a  door  bangs.) 


Death.    A  Philosophical  Discussion  15 


FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

(Brightly.)      He  looks  elegant.     I  hear  he 
never  suffered  none. 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

No;  he  went  too  quick.     One  minute  he  was 
alive  and  the  next  minute  he  was  dead. 


SIXTH  PALLBEARER 
Think  of  it:  dead  so  quick! 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
Gone! 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
Passed  away! 

THIRD   PALLBEARER 
Well,  we  all  have  to  go  some  time. 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  a  man  never  knows  but  what  his  turn'll 
come  next. 


16  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

You  can't  tell  nothing  by  looks.     Them  sick 
ly  fellows  generally  lives  to  be  old. 


SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  the  doctors  say  it's  the  big  stout  person 
that  goes  off  the  soonest.  They  say  typhord 
never  kills  none  but  the  healthy. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 

So  I  have  heered  it  said.  My  wife's  young 
est  brother  weighed  240  pounds.  He  was  as 
strong  as  a  mule.  He  could  lift  a  sugar-barrel, 
and  then  some.  Once  I  seen  him  drink  damn 
near  a  whole  keg  of  beer.  Yet  it  finished  him 
in  less'n  three  weeks — and  he  had  it  mild. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
It  seems  that  there's  a  lot  of  it  this  fall. 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  I  hear  of  people  taken  with  it  every 
day.  Some  say  it's  the  water.  My  brother 
Sam's  oldest  is  down  with  it. 


Death.     A  Philosophical  Discussion  17 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

I  had  it  myself  once.    I  was  out  of  my  head 
for  four  weeks. 


FIFTH   PALLBEARER 
That's  a  good  sign. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  you  don't  die  as  long  as  you're  out  of 
your  head. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 

It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  lot  of  sickness 
around  this  year. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
I  been  to  five  funerals  in  six  weeks. 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 

I  beat  you.     I  been  to  six  in  five  weeks,  not 
counting  this  one. 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

A  body  don't  hardly  know  what  to  think  of 
it  scarcely. 


18  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

That's   what  /   always   say:  you  can't   tell 
who'll  be  next. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 
Ain't  it  true  !    Just  think  of  him. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
Yes;  nobody  woulda  picked  him  out. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
Nor  my  brother  John,  neither. 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 
Well,  what  must  be  must  be. 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  it  don't  do  no  good  to  kick.     When  a 
man's  time  comes  he's  got  to  go. 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 
We're  lucky  if  it  ain't  us. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 
So  I  always  say.     We  ought  to  be  thankful. 


Death.     A  Philosophical  Discii-ssion  19 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
That's  the  way  /  always  feel  about  it. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 

It  wouldn't  do  him  no  good,  no  matter  what 
we  done. 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 
We're  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 
But  it's  hard  all  the  same. 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 
It's  hard  on  her. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 
Yes,  it  is.    Why  should  he  go? 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
It's  a  question  nobody  ain't  ever  answered. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
Nor  never  won't. 


20  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 

You're  right  there.  I  talked  to  a  preacher 
about  it  once,  and  even  he  couldn't  give  no  an 
swer  to  it. 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

The  more  you  think  about  it  the  less  you  can 
make  it  out. 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

When  I  seen  him  last  Wednesday  he  had 
no  more  ideer  of  it  than  what  you  had. 


SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

Well,  if  I  had  my  choice,  that's  the  way  I 
would  always  want  to  die. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
Yes;  that's  what  /  say.    I  am  with  you  there. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 

Yes;  you're  right,  both  of  you.  It  don't  do 
no  good  to  lay  sick  for  months,  with  doctors' 
bills  eatin'  you  up,  and  then  have  to  go  any 
how. 


Death.     A  Philosophical  Discussion  21 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 

No;  when  a  thing  has  to  be  done,  the  best 
thing  to  do  is  to  get  it  done  and  over  with. 


FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

That's  just  what  I  said  to  my  wife  when  I 
heerd. 

FIFTH  PALLBEARER 

But  nobody  hardly  thought  that  he  woulda 
been  the  next. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 

No;  but  that's  one  of  them  things  you  can't 
tell. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
You  never  know  who'll  be  the  next. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
It's  lucky  you  don't. 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 
I  guess  you're  right. 


22  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

FOURTH  PALLBEARER 

That's  what  my  grandfather  used  to  say 
you  never  know  what  is  coming. 


FIFTH  PALLBEARER 
Yes;  that's  the  way  it  goes. 

SIXTH  PALLBEARER 
First  one,  and  then  somebody  else. 

FIRST  PALLBEARER 
Who  it'll  be  you  can't  say. 

SECOND  PALLBEARER 
/  always  say  the  same:  we're  here  to-day — 

THIRD  PALLBEARER 

(Cutting  in  jealousy  and  humorously.)  And 
to-morrow  we  ain't  here. 

(A  subdued  and  sinister  snicker.  It  is  fol 
lowed  by  sudden  silence.  There  is  a  shuffling 
of  feet  in  the  front  room,  and  whispers.  Necks 


Death.     A  Philosophical  Discussion     23 

are  craned.  The  pallbearers  straighten  their 
backs,  hitch  their  coat  collars  and  pull  on  their 
black  gloves.  The  clergyman  has  arrived. 
From  above  comes  the  sound  of  weeping.) 


II.-FROM  THE  PRO 
GRAMME  OF  A 
CONCERT 


//. — From    The    Programme   of  a 
Concert 


"Ruhm  und  Ewigkeit"  (Fame  and  Eter 
nity)  ,  a  symphonic  poem  in  B  flat  minor ,  Opus 
48,  by  Johann  Sigismund  Timotheus  Albert 
Wolfgang  Kraus  ( 1872-  ) . 

KRAUS,     like    his    eminent     compatriot, 
Dr.    Richard    Strauss,    has    gone    to 
Friedrich  Nietzsche,  the  laureate  of 
the  modern  German  tone-art,  for  his 
inspiration  in  this  gigantic  work.     His  text  is 
to  be  found  in  Nietzsche's  Ecce  Homo,  which 
was  not  published  until  after  the  poet's  death, 
but    the    composition    really    belongs    to    Also 
sprach  Zarathustra,  as  a  glance  will  show: 

I 

Wie  lange  sitzest  du  schon 

auf  deinem   Klissgeschickf 
Gieb  Achtl    Du  brutest  mir  noch 

ein   Eif 

fin  Basiliskcn-Ei, 
out  dtinem  langen  Jammer  aus. 

27 


28  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

II 

Was  schleicht  Zarathiistra  entlang  dem  Berge? — 

III 

Misstraulsch,  geschwurig,  duster, 

ein  langer  Lauerer, — 
aber  plotzlich,  ein  Blitz, 

hell,  furchtbar,  ein  Schlag 
gen  Ilimmel  aus  dem  Abgrund: 

— dem  Berge  seller  schuttelt  sich 
das  Eingeweide.  .  .  . 

IV 

Wo  Hass  und  Blitzstrahl 
Eins  ward,  ein  Vluch, — 

auf  den  Bergen  haust  jetzt  Zarathustra's  Zorn, 
eine  Wetterwolke  schleicht  er  seines  Wegs. 


Verkrieche  sich,  wer  eine  letzte  Dec  he  hat! 

Ins  Bett  mit  euch,  ihr  Zdrtlinge! 
Nun  rollen  Donner  iiber  die  Gewolbe, 

nun  zittert,  was  Gebdlk  und  Mauer  1st, 
nun   zucken   Blitze  und  schwefelgelbe   Wahrhe'iten — 

Zarathustra  flucht  .   .  ./ 

For  the  following  faithful  and  graceful 
translation  the  present  commentator  is  indebt 
ed  to  Mr.  Louis  Untermeyer: 


Fro m  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  29 


How  long  brood  you  now 

On   thy  disaster? 

Give  heed!     You  hatch  me  soon 

An  egg, 

From  your  long  lamentation  out  of. 

II 

Why  prowls  Zarathustra  among  the  mountains? 

Ill 

Distrustful,  ulcerated,  dismal, 

A    long  waiter — 
But  suddenly  a  flash, 

Brilliant,  fearful.     A  lightning  stroke 
Leaps  to  heaven  from  the  abyss: 
— The  mountains  shake  themselves  and 
Their  intestines  .  .  . 

IV 

As  hate  and  lightning-flash 

Are  united,  a  curse! 

On  the  mountains  rages  now  Zarathustra's  wrath, 
Like  a  thunder  cloud  rolls  it  on  its  way. 


Crawl  away,  ye  who  have  a  roof  remaining! 
To  bed  with  you,  yc  tenderlings! 


30  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Now  thunder  rolls  over  the  great  arches, 

Now  tremble  the  bastions  and  battlements, 
Now    flashes    palpitate    and    sulphur-yellow    truths — 
Zarathustra  swears  .  .  . ! 

The  composition  is  scored  for  three  flutes, 
one  piccolo,  one  bass  piccolo,  seven  oboes, 
one  English  horn,  three  clarinets  in  D  flat,  one 
clarinet  in  G  flat,  one  corno  de  bassetto,  three 
bassoons,  one  contra-bassoon,  eleven  horns, 
three  trumpets,  eight  cornets  in  B,  four  trom 
bones,  two  alto  trombones,  one  viol  da  gamba, 
one  mandolin,  two  guitars,  one  banjo,  two  tu 
bas,  glockenspiel,  bell,  triangle,  fife,  bass-drum, 
cymbals,  timpani,  celesta,  four  harps,  piano, 
harmonium,  pianola,  phonograph,  and  the 
usual  strings. 

At  the  opening  a  long  B  flat  is  sounded  by 
the  cornets,  clarinets  and  bassoons  in  unison, 
with  soft  strokes  upon  a  kettle-drum  tuned  to 
G  sharp.  After  eighteen  measures  of  this, 
slnghiozzando,  the  strings  enter  pizzicato  with 
a  figure  based  upon  one  of  the  scales  of  the  an 
cient  Persians — B  flat,  C  flat,  D,  E  sharp,  G 
and  A  flat — which  starts  high  among  the  first 
violins,  and  then  proceeds  downward,  through 
the  second  violins,  violas  and  cellos,  until  it  is 
lost  in  solemn  and  indistinct  muttcrings  in  the 
double-basses.  Then,  the  atmosphere  of  doom 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  31 

having  been  established,  and  the  conductor  hav 
ing  found  his  place  in  the  score,  there  is  heard 
the  motive  of  brooding,  or  as  the  German  com 
mentators  call  it,  the  Qudlerei  Motiv: 


Andante 


The  opening  chord  of  the  eleventh  is  sound 
ed  by  six  horns,  and  the  chords  of  the  ninth, 
which  follow,  are  given  to  the  woodwind.  The 
rapid  figure  in  the  second  measure  is  for  solo 
violin,  heard  softly  against  the  sustained  inter 
val  of  the  diminished  ninth,  but  the  final  G  nat 
ural  is  snapped  out  by  the  whole  orchestra 


32  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

sforzando.  There  follows  a  rapid  and  dar 
ing  development  of  the  theme,  with  the  flutes 
and  violoncellos  leading,  first  harmonized  with 
chords  of  the  eleventh,  then  with  chords  of  the 
thirteenth,  and  finally  with  chords  of  the  fif 
teenth.  Meanwhile,  the  tonality  has  moved 
into  D  minor,  then  into  A  flat  major,  and  then 
into  G  sharp  minor,  and  the  little  arpeggio  for 
the  solo  violin  has  been  augmented  to  seven,  to 
eleven,  and  in  the  end  to  twenty-three  notes. 
Here  the  influence  of  Claude  Debussy  shows  it 
self;  the  chords  of  the  ninth  proceed  by  the 
same  chromatic  semitones  that  one  finds  in  the 
Chansons  de  Bilitis.  But  Kraus  goes  much  fur 
ther  than  Debussy,  for  the  tones  of  his  chords 
are  constantly  altered  in  a  strange  and  extreme 
ly  beautiful  manner,  and,  as  has  been  noted, 
he  adds  the  eleventh,  thirteenth  and  fifteenth. 
At  the  end  of  this  incomparable  passage  there 
is  a  sudden  drop  to  C  major,  followed  by  the 
first  statement  of  the  Missgeschick  Motiv,  or 
motive  of  disaster  (misfortune,  evil  destiny,  un 
toward  fate)  : 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  33 

This  graceful  and  ingratiating  theme  will 
give  no  concern  to  the  student  of  Ravel  and 
Schoenberg.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  quite  elemental 
succession  of  intervals  of  the  second,  all  pro 
duced  by  adding  the  ninth  to  the  common  chord 
—thus:  C,  G,  C,  D,  E — with  certain  enhar 
monic  changes.  Its  simplicity  gives  it,  at  a 
first  hearing,  a  placid,  pastoral  aspect,  some 
what  disconcerting  to  the  literalist,  but  the  dis 
cerning  will  not  fail  to  note  the  mutterings  be 
neath  the  surface.  It  is  first  sounded  by  two 
violas  and  the  viol  da  gamba,  and  then  drops 
without  change  to  the  bass,  where  it  is  repeat 
ed  fortissimo  by  two  bassoons  and  the  contra- 
bassoon.  The  tempo  then  quickens  and  the  two 
themes  so  far  heard  are  worked  up  into  a  brief 
but  tempestuous  fugue.  A  brief  extract  will 
suffice  to  show  its  enormously  complex  nature : 


34 


A  Book  of  Burlesques 


A  pedal  point  on  B  flat  is  heard  at  the  end 
of  this  fugue,  sounded  fortissimo  by  all  the 
brass  in  unison,  and  then  follows  a  grand  pause, 
twelve  and  a  half  measures  in  length.  Then, 
in  the  strings,  is  heard  the  motive  of  warning: 


Presto 


5^36 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  35 

Out  of  this  motive  comes  the  harmonic  ma 
terial  for  much  of  what  remains  of  the  com 
position.  At  each  repetition  of  the  theme,  the 
chord  in  the  fourth  measure  is  augmented  by 
the  addition  of  another  interval,  until  in  the 
end  it  includes  every  tone  of  the  chromatic  scale 
save  C  sharp.  This  omission  is  significant  of 
Kraus'  artistry.  If  C  sharp  were  included  the 
tonality  would  at  once  become  vague,  but  with 
out  it  the  dependence  of  the  whole  gorgeous  edi 
fice  upon  C  major  is  kept  plain.  At  the  end, 
indeed,  the  tonic  chord  of  C  major  is  clearly 
sounded  by  the  wood-wind,  against  curious  trip 
lets,  made  up  of  F  sharp,  A  flat  and  B  flat  in 
various  combinations,  in  the  strings;  and  from 
it  a  sudden  modulation  is  made  to  C  minor,  and 
then  to  A- flat  major.  This  opens  the  way  for 
the  entrance  of  the  motive  of  lamentation,  or, 
as  the  German  commentators  call  it,  the  Schrei- 
erei  Motiv: 

Dolce 


This  simple  and  lovely  theme  is  first  sound 
ed,  not  by  any  of  the  usual  instruments  of  the 
grand  orchestra,  but  by  a  phonograph  in  B  flat, 
with  the  accompaniment  of  a  solitary  trombone. 


36  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

When  the  composition  was  first  played  at  the 
Gewandhaus  in  Leipzig  the  innovation  caused 
a  sensation,  and  there  were  loud  cries  of  sac 
rilege  and  even  proposals  of  police  action.  One 
indignant  classicist,  in  token  of  his  ire,  hung 
a  wreath  of  Knackwiirste  around  the  neck  of 
the  bust  of  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  in  the  Thom- 
askirche,  and  appended  to  it  a  card  bearing  the 
legend,  Schweinehund!  But  the  exquisite  beauty 
of  the  effect  soon  won  acceptance  for  the  means 
employed  to  attain  it,  and  the  phonograph  has 
so  far  made  its  way  with  German  composers 
that  Prof.  Ludwig  Grossetrommel,  of  Got- 
tingen,  has  even  proposed  its  employment  in 
opera  in  place  of  singers. 

This  motive  of  lamentation  is  worked  out 
on  a  grand  scale,  and  in  intimate  association 
with  the  motives  of  brooding  and  of  warning. 
Kraus  is  not  content  with  the  ordinary  materi 
als  of  composition.  His  creative  force  is  al 
ways  impelling  him  to  break  through  the  fet 
ters  of  the  diatonic  scale,  and  to  find  utter 
ance  for  his  ideas  in  archaic  and  extremely  ex 
otic  tonalities.  The  pentatonic  scale  is  a  favor 
ite  with  him;  he  employs  it  as  boldly  as  Wag 
ner  did  in  Das  Rhcingold.  But  it  is  not  enough, 
for  he  proceeds  from  it  into  the  Dorian  mode 
of  the  ancient  Greeks,  and  then  into  the  Phry- 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  37 


gian,  and  then  into  two  of  the  plagal  modes. 
Moreover,  he  constantly  combines  both  unre 
lated  scales  and  antagonistic  motives,  and  in 
vests  the  combinations  in  astounding  orches 
tral  colors,  so  that  the  hearer,  unaccustomed  to 
such  bold  experimentations,  is  quite  lost  in  the 
maze.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  characteristic 
passage  for  solo  French  horn  and  bass  piccolo: 

Largo' 


I 


tk  fJir  r 


The  dotted  half  notes  for  the  horn  obvi 
ously  come  from  the  motive  of  brooding,  in 
augmentation,  but  the  bass  piccolo  part  is  new. 
It  soon  appears,  however,  in  various  fresh  as 
pects,  and  in  the  end  it  enters  into  the  famous 
quadruple  motive  of  "sulphur-yellow  truth" — 
schwcfclgelbe  Wahrheit,  as  we  shall  presently 
see.  Its  first  combination  is  with  a  jaunty  figure 
in  A  minor,  and  the  two  together  form  what 
most  of  the  commentators  agree  upon  denomi 
nating  the  Zarathustra  motive: 


38  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

I  call  this  the  Zarathustra  motive,  following 
the  weight  of  critical  opinion,  but  various  influ 
ential  critics  dissent.  Thus,  Dr.  Ferdinand 
Bierfisch,  of  the  Hochschule  fur  Musik  at  Dres 
den,  insists  that  it  is  the  theme  of  "the  elevated 
mood  produced  by  the  spiritual  isolation  and 
low  barometric  pressure  of  the  mountains," 
while  Prof.  B.  Moll,  of  Frankfurt  a/M.,  calls 
it  the  motive  of  prowling.  Kraus  himself, 
when  asked  by  Dr.  Fritz  Bratsche,  of  the  Ber 
lin  Folkszeitung,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
answered  in  his  native  Hamburg  dialect,  "So 
gehts  im  Leben!  'S  glebt  gar  kein  Use" — 
Such  is  life;  it  gives  hardly  any  use  (to  in 
quire?).  In  much  the  same  way  Schubert  made 
reply  to  one  who  asked  the  meaning  of  the 
opening  subject  of  the  slow  movement  of  his 
C  major  symphony:  "Halt's  Maul,  du  ver- 
fluchter  Narr/"-—Dont  ask  such  question,  my 
dear  sir! 

But  whatever  the  truth,  the  novelty  and  orig 
inality  of  the  theme  cannot  be  denied,  for  it  is 
in  two  distinct  keys,  D  major  and  A  minor, 
and  they  preserve  their  identity  whenever  it 
appears.  The  handling  of  two  such  diverse  to 
nalities  at  one  time  would  present  insuperable 
difficulties  to  a  composer  less  ingenious  than 
Kraus,  but  he  manages  it  quite  simply  by  found- 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  89 

Ing  his  whole  harmonic  scheme  upon  the  tonic 
triad  of  D  major,  with  the  seventh  and  ninth 
added.  He  thus  achieves  a  chord  which  also 
contains  the  tonic  triad  of  A  minor.  The  same 
thing  is  now  done  with  the  dominant  triads,  and 
half  the  battle  is  won.  Moreover,  the  instru 
mentation  shows  the  same  boldness,  for  the 
double  theme  is  first  given  to  three  solo  vio 
lins,  and  they  are  muted  in  a  novel  and  effective 
manner  by  stopping  their  F  holes.  The  direc 
tions  in  the  score  say  mil  Glaserkitt  (that  is, 
with  glazier's  putty),  but  the  Konzertmeister 
at  the  Gewandhaus,  Herr  F.  Dur,  substituted 
ordinary  pumpernickel  with  excellent  results. 
It  is,  in  fact,  now  commonly  used  in  the  Ger 
man  orchestras  in  place  of  putty,  for  it  does 
less  injury  to  the  varnish  of  the  violins,  and, 
besides,  it  is  edible  after  use.  It  produces  a 
thick,  oily,  mysterious,  far-away  effect. 

At  the  start,  as  I  have  just  said,  the  double 
theme  of  Zarathustra  appears  in  D  major  and 
A  minor,  but  there  is  quick  modulation  to  B 
flat  major  and  C  sharp  minor,  and  then  to  C 
major  and  ¥  sharp  minor.  Meanwhile  the 
tempo  gradually  accelerates,  and  the  polyphonic 
texture  is  helped  out  by  reminiscences  of  the 
themes  of  brooding  and  of  lamentation.  A  sud 
den  hush  and  the  motive  of  warning  is  heard 


40  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

high  in  the  wood-wind,  in  C  flat  major,  against 
a  double  organ-point — C  natural  and  C  sharp 
— in  the  lower  strings.  There  follows  a  ca 
denza  of  no  less  than  eighty-four  measures  for 
four  harps,  tympani  and  a  single  tuba,  and 
then  the  motive  of  waiting  is  given  out  by  the 
whole  orchestra  in  unison: 


This  stately  motive  is  repeated  in  F  major, 
after  which  some  passage  work  for  the  piano 
and  pianola,  the  former  tuned  a  quarter  tone 
lower  than  the  latter  and  played  by  three  per 
formers,  leads  directly  into  the  quadruple 
theme  of  the  sulphur-yellow  truth,  mentioned 
above.  It  is  first  given  out  by  two  oboes  di 
vided,  a  single  English  horn,  two  bassoons  in 
unison,  and  four  trombones  in  unison.  It  is 
an  extraordinarily  long  motive,  running  to 
twenty-seven  measures  on  its  first  appearance; 
the  four  opening  measures  are  given  on  the 
next  page. 

With  an  exception  yet  to  be  noted,  all  of  the 
composer's  thematic  material  is  now  set  forth, 
and  what  follows  is  a  stupendous  development 
of  it,  so  complex  that  no  written  description 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  41 


Obo« 


Como 

Ingles* 


Figotte 


Trombont 


*=^=& 

^^  1^^^^^ 


Bfe 


I 


could  even  faintly  indicate  its  character.  The 
quadruple  theme  of  the  sulphur-yellow  truth  is 
sung  almost  uninterruptedly,  first  by  the  wood- 


42  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

wind,  then  by  the  strings  and  then  by  the  full 
brass  choir,  with  the  glockenspiel  and  cymbals 
added.  Into  it  are  woven  all  of  the  other 
themes  in  inextricable  whirls  and  whorls  of 
sound,  and  in  most  amazing  combinations  and 
permutations  of  tonalities.  Moreover,  there  is 
a  constantly  rising  complexity  of  rhythm,  and 
on  one  page  of  the  score  the  time  signature  is 
changed  no  less  than  eighteen  times.  Several 
times  it  is  5-8  and  7-4;  once  it  is  n-2;  in  one 
place  the  composer,  following  Koechlin  and 
Erik  Satie,  abandons  bar-lines  altogether  for 
half  a  page  of  the  score.  And  these  diverse 
rhythms  are  not  always  merely  successive; 
sometimes  they  are  heard  together.  For  exam 
ple,  the  motive  of  disaster,  augmented  to  5-8 
time,  is  sounded  clearly  by  the  clarinets  against 
the  motive  of  lamentation  in  3-4  time,  and 
through  it  all  one  hears  the  steady  beat  of  the 
motive  of  waiting  in  4-4! 

This  gigantic  development  of  materials  is 
carried  to  a  thrilling  climax,  with  the  whole 
orchestra  proclaiming  the  Zarathustra  motive 
fortissimo.  Then  follows  a  series  of  arpeggios 
for  the  harps,  made  of  the  motive  of  warning, 
and  out  of  them  there  gradually  steals  the  tonic 
triad  of  D  minor,  sung  by  three  oboes.  This 
chord  constitutes  the  backbone  of  all  that  fol- 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  43 

lows.  The  three  oboes  are  presently  joined  by 
a  fourth.  Against  this  curtain  of  tone  the  flutes 
and  piccolos  repeat  the  theme  of  brooding  in 
F  major,  and  then  join  the  oboes  in  the  D  minor 
chord.  The  horns  and  bassoons  follow  with 
the  motive  of  disaster  and  then  do  likewise. 
Now  come  the  violins  with  the  motive  of  lam 
entation,  but  instead  of  ending  with  the  D 
minor  tonic  triad,  they  sound  a  chord  of  the 
seventh  erected  on  C  sharp  as  seventh  of  D 
minor.  Every  tone  of  the  scale  of  D  minor 
is  now  being  sounded,  and  as  instrument  after 
instrument  joins  in  the  effect  is  indescribably 
sonorous  and  imposing.  Meanwhile,  there  is 
a  steady  crescendo,  ending  after  three  minutes 
of  truly  tremendous  music  with  ten  sharp  blasts 
of  the  double  chord.  A  moment  of  silence  and 
a  single  trombone  gives  out  a  theme  hitherto 
not  heard.  It  is  the  theme  of  tenderness,  or, 
as  the  German  commentators  call  it,  the  Bier- 
mad' I  Motiv:  Thus: 


44  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Again  silence.     Then  a  single  piccolo  plays 
the  closing  cadence  of  the  composition: 

*4g 
-Len/ojz^z 

t±E 


&* 


Ruhm  und  Ewigkeit  presents  enormous  dif 
ficulties  to  the  performers,  and  taxes  the  gen 
eralship  of  the  most  skillful  conductor.  When 
it  was  in  preparation  at  the  Gewandhaus  the 
first  performance  was  postponed  twelve  times 
in  order  to  extend  the  rehearsals.  It  was  re 
ported  in  the  German  papers  at  the  time  that 
ten  members  of  the  orchestra,  including  the  first 
flutist,  Ewald  Lowenhals,  resigned  during  the 
rehearsals,  and  that  the  intervention  of  the 
King  of  Saxony  was  necessary  to  make  them 
reconsider  their  resignations.  One  of  the  sec 
ond  violins,  Hugo  Zehndaumen,  resorted  to 
stimulants  in  anticipation  of  the  opening  per 
formance,  and  while  on  his  way  to  the  hall  was 
run  over  by  a  taxicab.  The  conductor  was 
Nikisch.  A  performance  at  Munich  followed, 
and  on  May  i,  1913,  the  work  reached  Berlin. 
At  the  public  rehearsal  there  was  a  riot  led  by 
members  of  the  Bach  Gesellschaft,  and  the  hall 
was  stormed  by  the  mounted  police.  Many  ar- 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  45 

rests  were  made,  and  five  of  the  rioters  were 
taken  to  hospital  with  serious  injuries.  The 
work  was  put  into  rehearsal  by  the  Boston  Sym 
phony  Orchestra  in  1914.  The  rehearsals  have 
been  proceeding  ever  since.  A  piano  tran 
scription  for  sixteen  hands  has  been  published. 
Kraus  was  born  at  Hamburg  on  January 
14,  1872.  At  the  age  of  three  he  performed 
creditably  on  the  zither,  cornet  and  trombone, 
and  by  1877  he  had  already  appeared  in  con 
cert  at  Danzig.  His  family  was  very  poor,  and 
his  early  years  were  full  of  difficulties.  It  is 
said  that,  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  copied  the 
whole  score  of  Wagner's  Ring,  the  scores  of 
the  nine  Beethoven  symphonies  and  the  com 
plete  works  of  Mozart.  His  regular  teacher, 
in  those  days,  was  Stadtpfeifer  Schmidt,  who 
instructed  him  in  piano  and  thorough-bass.  In 
1884,  desiring  to  have  lessons  in  counterpoint 
from  Prof.  Kalbsbraten,  of  Mainz,  he  walked 
to  that  city  from  Hamburg  once  a  week — a  dis 
tance  for  the  round  trip  of  316  miles.  In  1887 
he  went  to  Berlin  and  became  fourth  cornetist 
of  the  Philharmonic  Orchestra  and  valet  to 
Dr.  Schweinsrippen,  the  conductor.  In  Berlin 
he  studied  violin  and  second  violin  under  the 
Polish  virtuoso,  Pbyschbrweski,  and  also  had 


46  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

lessons  in  composition  from  Wilhelm  Geigen- 
heimer,  formerly  third  triangle  and  assistant 
librarian  at  Bayreuth. 

His  first  composition,  a  march  for  cornet, 
violin  and  piano,  was  performed  on  July  18, 
1888,  at  the  annual  ball  of  the  Arbeiter  Lied- 
ertafel  in  Berlin.  It  attracted  little  attention, 
but  six  months  later  the  young  composer  made 
musical  Berlin  talk  about  him  by  producing  a 
composition  called  Adenoids,  for  twelve  tenors, 
a  cappella,  to  words  by  Otto  Julius  Bierbaum. 
This  was  first  heard  at  an  open  air  concert 
given  in  the  Tiergarten  by  the  Sozialist  Lieder- 
kranz.  It  was  soon  after  repeated  by  the  choir 
of  the  Gottesgelehrheitsakademie,  and  Kraus 
found  himself  a  famous  young  man.  His  string 
quartet  in  G  sharp  minor,  first  played  early  in 
1889  by  the  quartet  led  by  Prof.  Rudolph 
Wurst,  added  to  his  growing  celebrity,  and 
when  his  first  tone  poem  for  orchestra,  Fuchs, 
Du  Hast  die  Cans  Gestohlen,  was  done  by  the 
Philharmonic  in  the  autumn  of  1889,  under  Dr. 
Lachschinken,  it  was  hailed  with  acclaim. 

Kraus  has  since  written  twelve  symphonies 
(two  choral),  nine  tone-poems,  a  suite  for  brass 
and  tympani,  a  trio  for  harp,  tuba  and  glocken 
spiel,  ten  string  quartettes,  a  serenade  for  flute 


From  the  Programme  of  a  Concert  47 

and  contra-bassoon,  four  concert  overtures,  a 
cornet  concerto,  and  many  songs  and  piano 
pieces.  His  best-known  work,  perhaps,  is  his 
symphony  in  F  flat  major,  in  eight  movements. 
But  Kraus  himself  is  said  to  regard  this  huge 
work  as  trivial.  His  own  favorite,  according 
to  his  biographer,  Dr.  Linsensuppe,  is  Ruhm 
und  Ewigkeit,  though  he  is  also  fond  of  the 
tone-poem  which  immediately  preceded  it, 
Rinderbrust  und  Meerrettig.  He  has  written 
a  choral  for  sixty  trombones,  dedicated  to  Field 
Marshal  von  Hindenburg,  and  is  said  to  be 
at  work  on  a  military  mass  for  four  orchestras, 
seven  brass  bands  and  ten  choirs,  with  the  usual 
soloists  and  clergy.  Among  his  principal 
works  are  Der  Ewigen  Wiederkunft  (a  ten 
part  fugue  for  full  orchestra),  Bicrgemiitlich- 
kcit,  his  Oberkellner  and  Uebermensch  concert 
overtures,  and  his  setting  (for  mixed  chorus) 
of  the  old  German  hymn  : 

Saufst — stirbstl 
Saufst  net — stirbst  a! 
Also,  saufst! 

Kraus  is  now  a  resident  of  Munich,  where 
he  conducts  the  orchestra  at  the  Lowenbrau- 
haus.  He  has  been  married  eight  times  and 
is  at  present  the  fifth  husband  of  Tilly  Heintz, 


48  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

the  opera  singer.  He  has  been  decorated  by 
the  Kaiser,  by  the  King  of  Sweden  and  by  the 
Sultan  of  Turkey,  and  is  a  member  of  the  Ger 
man  Odd  Fellows. 


1 1 1. -THE  WEDDING 


1 1 1. -The   Wedding.     A  Stage 
Direction 


THE  scene  is  a  church  in  an  American 
city  of  about  half  a  million  popula 
tion,  and  the  time  is  about  eleven 
o'clock  of  a  fine  morning  in  early 
spring.  The  neighborhood  is  well-to-do,  but 
not  quite  fashionable.  That  is  to  say,  most  of 
the  families  of  the  vicinage  keep  two  servants 
(alas,  more  or  less  intermittently/),  and  eat 
dinner  at  half-past  six,  and  about  one  in  every 
four  boasts  a  colored  butler  (who  attends  to 
the  fires,  washes  windows  and  helps  with  the 
sweeping),  and  a  last  year's  automobile.  The 
heads  of  these  families  are  merchandise  brok 
ers;  jobbers  in  notions,  hardware  and  drugs; 
manufacturers  of  candy,  hats,  badges,  office  fur 
niture,  blank  books,  picture  frames,  wire  goods 
and  patent  medicines;  managers  of  steamboat 
lines;  district  agents  of  insurance  companies; 
owners  of  commercial  printing  offices,  and  other 
such  business  men  of  substance — and  the  pros 
perous  lawyers  and  popular  family  doctors  who 

51 


52  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

keep  them  out  of  trouble.  In  one  block  live 
a  Congressman  and  two  college  professors,  one 
of  whom  has  written  an  unimportant  textbook 
and  got  himself  into  "Who 's  W ho  in  America." 
In  the  block  above  lives  a  man  who  once  ran 
for  Mayor  of  the  city,  and  came  near  being 
elected. 

The  wives  of  these  householders  wear  good 
clothes  and  have  a  liking  for  a  reasonable  gay- 
ety,  but  very  few  of  them  can  pretend  to  what 
is  vaguely  called  social  standing,  and,  to  do 
them  justice,  not  many  of  them  waste  any  time 
lamenting  it.  They  have,  taking  one  with  an 
other,  about  three  children  apiece,  and  are  good 
mothers.  A  few  of  them  belong  to  women's 
clubs  or  flirt  with  the  suffragettes,  but  the  ma 
jority  can  get  all  of  the  intellectual  stimulation 
they  crave  in  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal  and  the 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  with  Vogue  added  for 
its  fashions.  Most  of  them,  deep  down  in  their 
hearts,  suspect  their  husbands  of  secret  frivol 
ity,  and  about  ten  per  cent,  have  the  proofs,  but 
it  is  rare  for  them  to  make  rows  about  it,  and 
the  divorce  rate  among  them  is  thus  very  low. 
Themselves  indifferent  cooks,  they  are  unable 
to  teach  their  servants  the  art,  and  so  the  food 
they  set  before  their  husbands  and  children  is 
often  such  as  would  make  a  Frenchman  cut 


The  Weddiny.     A  Stage  Direction  58 

his  throat.  But  they  are  diligent  housewives 
otherwise;  they  see  to  it  that  the  windows  are 
washed,  that  no  one  tracks  mud  into  the  hall, 
that  the  servants  do  not  waste  coal,  sugar,  soap 
and  gas,  and  that  the  family  buttons  are  always 
sewed  on.  In  religion  these  estimable  wives 
are  pious  in  habit  but  somewhat  nebulous  in 
faith.  That  is  to  say,  they  regard  any  person 
who  specifically  refuses  to  go  to  church  as  a 
heathen,  but  they  themselves  are  by  no  means 
regular  in  attendance,  and  not  one  in  ten  of 
them  could  tell  you  whether  transubstantiation 
is  a  Roman  Catholic  or  a  Dunkard  doctrine. 
About  two  per  cent,  have  dallied  more  or  less 
gingerly  with  Christian  Science,  their  average 
period  of  belief  being  one  year. 

The  church  we  are  in  is  like  the  neighbor 
hood  and  its  people:  well-to-do  but  not  fashion 
able.  It  is  Protestant  in  faith  and  probably 
Episcopalian.  The  pews  are  of  thick,  yellow- 
brown  oak,  severe  in  pattern  and  hideous  in 
color.  In  each  there  is  a  long,  removable  cush 
ion  of  a  dark,  purplish,  dirty  hue,  with  here  and 
there  some  of  its  hair  stuffing  showing.  The 
stained-glass  windows,  which  were  all  bought 
ready -made  and  depict  scenes  from  the  New 
Testament,  commemorate  the  virtues  of  -de 
parted  worthies  of  the  neighborhood,  whose 


54  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

names  appear,  in  illegible  black  letters,  in  the 
lower  panels.  The  floor  is  covered  with  a  car 
pet  of  some  tough,  fibrous  material,  apparently 
a  sort  of  grass,  and  along  the  center  aisle  it  is 
much  worn.  The  normal  smell  of  the  place  is 
rather  less  unpleasant  than  that  of  most  other 
halls,  for  on  the  one  day  when  it  is  regularly 
crowded  practically  all  of  the  persons  gathered 
together  have  been  very  recently  bathed. 

On  this  fine  morning,  however,  it  is  full  of 
heavy,  mortuary  perfumes,  for  a  couple  of  flor 
ist's  men  have  just  finished  decorating  the  chan 
cel  with  flowers  and  potted  palms.  Just  be 
hind  the  chancel  rail,  facing  the  center  aisle, 
there  is  a  prie-dicu,  and  to  either  side  of  it  are 
great  banks  of  lilies,  carnations,  gardenias  and 
roses.  Three  or  four  feet  behind  the  prie-dieu 
and  completely  concealing  the  high  altar,  there 
is  a  dense  jungle  of  palms.  Those  in  the  front 
rank  are  authentically  growing  in  pots,  but  be 
hind  them  the  florist's  men  have  artfully  placed 
some  more  durable,  and  hence  more  profitable, 
sophistications.  Anon  the  rev.  clergyman, 
emerging  from  the  vestry-room  to  the  right, 
will  pass  along  the  front  of  this  jungle  to  the 
prie-dieu,  and  so,  framed  in  flowers,  face  the 
congregation  with  his  saponaceous  smile. 

The  florist's  men,  having  completed  their  la- 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  55 

bors,  are  preparing  to  depart.  The  older  of 
the  two,  a  man  in  the  fifties,  shows  the  ease 
of  an  experienced  hand  by  taking  out  a  large 
plug  of  tobacco  and  gnawing  off  a  substantial 
chew.  The  desire  to  spit  seizing  him  shortly, 
he  proceeds  to  gratify  it  by  a  trick  long  prac 
tised  by  gasfitters,  musicians,  caterer's  helpers, 
piano  movers  and  other  such  alien  invaders  of 
the  domestic  hearth.  That  is  to  say,  he  hunts 
for  a  place  where  the  carpet  is  loose  along  the 
chancel  rail,  finds  it  where  two  lengths  join, 
deftly  turns  up  a  flap,  spits  upon  the  bare  floor, 
and  then  lets  the  flap  fall  back,  finally  giving 
it  a  pat  with  the  sole  of  his  foot.  This  done, 
he  and  his  assistant  leave  the  church  to  the 
sexton,  who  has  been  sweeping  the  vestibule, 
and,  after  passing  the  time  of  day  with  the  two 
men  who  are  putting  up  a  striped  awning  from 
the  door  to  the  curb,  disappear  into  a  nearby 
speak-easy,  there  to  wait  and  refresh  themselves 
until  the  wedding  is  over,  and  it  is  time  to  take 
away  their  lilies,  their  carnations  and  their  syn 
thetic  palms. 

It  is  now  a  quarter  past  eleven,  and  two  flap 
pers  of  the  neighborhood,  giggling  and  arm- 
in-arm,  approach  the  sexton  and  inquire  of  him 
if  they  may  enter.  He  asks  them  if  they  have 
tickets  and  when  they  say  they  haven  t,  he  tells 


56  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

them  that  he  ain't  got  no  right  to  let  them  in, 
and  don  t  know  nothing  about  what  the  rule  is 
going  to  be.  At  some  weddings,  he  goes  on, 
hardly  nobody  ain't  allowed  in,  but  then  again, 
sometimes  they  don't  scarcely  look  at  the  tickets 
at  all.  The  two  flappers  retire  abashed,  and  as 
the  sexton  finishes  his  sweeping,  there  enters  the 
organist. 

The  organist  is  a  tall,  thin  man  of  melan 
choly,  uramic  aspect,  wearing  a  black  slouch  hat 
with  a  wide  brim  and  a  yellow  overcoat  that 
barely  reaches  to  his  knees.  A  pupil,  in  his 
youth,  of  a  man  who  had  once  studied  (irregu 
larly  and  briefly)  with  Charles-Marie  Widor, 
he  acquired  thereby  the  artistic  temperament, 
and  with  it  a  vast  fondness  for  malt  liquor. 
His  mood  this  morning  is  acidulous  and  de 
pressed,  for  he  spent  yesterday  evening  in  a 
Pilsner  ausschank  with  two  former  members 
of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  and  it  was 
J  A.  M.  before  they  finally  agreed  that  Johann 
Sebastian  Bach,  all  things  considered,  was  a 
greater  man  than  Beethoven,  and  so  parted 
amicably.  Sourness  is  the  precise  sensation 
that  wells  within  him.  He  feels  vinegary;  his 
blood  runs  cold;  he  wishes  he  could  immerse 
himself  in  bicarbonate  of  soda.  But  the  call 
of  his  art  is  more  potent  than  the  protest  of 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  57 

his  poisoned  and  quaking  liver,  and  so  he  man 
fully  climbs  the  spiral  stairway  to  his  organ- 
loft. 

Once  there,  he  takes  off  his  hat  and  overcoat, 
stoops  down  to  blow  the  dust  off  the  organ  keys, 
throws  the  electrical  switch  which  sets  the  bel 
lows  going,  and  then  proceeds  to  take  off  his 
shoes.  This  done,  he  takes  his  seat,  reaches 
for  the  pedals  with  his  stockinged  feet,  tries  an 
experimental  32-foot  CCC,  and  then  wanders 
gently  into  a  Bach  toccata.  It  is  his  limbering- 
up  piece:  he  always  plays  it  as  a  prelude  to  a 
wedding  job.  It  thus  goes  very  smoothly* and 
even  brilliantly,  but  when  he  comes  to  the  end 
of  it  and  tackles  the  ensuing  fugue  he  is  quickly 
in  difficulties,  and  after  four  or  five  stumbling 
repetitions  of  the  subject  he  hurriedly  impro 
vises  a  crude  coda  and  has  done.  Peering  down 
into  the  church  to  see  if  his  flounderings  have 
had  an  audience,  he  sees  two  old  maids  enter, 
the  one  very  tall  and  thin  and  the  other  some 
what  brisk  and  bunchy. 

They  constitute  the  vanguard  of  the  nuptial 
throng,  and  as  they  proceed  hesitatingly  up  the 
center  aisle,  eager  for  good  seats  but  afraid  to 
go  too  far,  the  organist  wipes  his  palms  upon 
his  trousers  legs,  squares  his  shoulders,  and 
plunges  into  the  program  that  he  has  played  at 


58  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

all  weddings  for  fifteen  years  past.  It  begins 
with  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song,  pianissimo. 
Then  comes  Rubinstein's  Melody  in  F,  with  a 
touch  of  forte  toward  the  close,  and  then 
Nevin's  "Oh,  That  W 'e  Two  Were  Maying," 
and  then  the  Chopin  waltz  in  A  flat,  Opus  69, 
No.  I,  and  then  the  Spring  Song  again,  and 
then  a  free  fantasia  upon  "The  Rosary"  and 
then  a  Moszkowski  mazurka,  and  then  the 
Dvorak  Humoresque  (with  its  heart-rending 
cry  in  the  middle),  and  then  some  vague  and 
turbulent  thing  (apparently  the  disjecta  mem 
bra  of  another  fugue),  and  then  Tschaikow- 
sky's  "Autumn"  and  then  Elgar's  "Salut  d' 
Amour"  and  then  the  Spring  Song  a  third 
time,  and  then  something  or  other  from  one 
of  the  Peer  Gynt  suites,  and  then  an  hurrah  or 
two  from  the  Hallelujah  chorus,  and  then 
Chopin  again,  and  Nevin,  and  Elgar,  and — 

But  meanwhile,  there  is  a  growing  activity 
below.  First  comes  a  closed  automobile  bear 
ing  the  six  ushers  and  soon  after  it  another  au 
tomobile  bearing  the  bridegroom  and  his  best 
man.  The  bridegroom  and  the  best  man  dis 
embark  before  the  side  entrance  of  the  church 
and  make  their  way  into  the  vestry  room,  where 
they  remove  their  hats  and  coats,  and  proceed 
to  struggle  with  their  cravats  and  collars  be- 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  59 

fore  a  mirror  which  hangs  on  the  wall.  The 
room  is  •very  dingy.  A  baize-covered  table  is 
in  the  center  of  it,  and  around  the  table  stand 
six  or  eight  chairs  of  assorted  designs.  One 
wall  is  completely  covered  by  a  bookcase , 
through  the  glass  doors  of  which  one  may  dis 
cern  piles  of  cheap  Bibles,  hymn-books  and 
back  numbers  of  the  parish  magazine.  In  one 
corner  is  a  small  washstand.  The  best  man 
takes  a  flat  flask  of  whiskey  from  his  pocket, 
looks  about  him  for  a  glass,  finds  it  on  the 
washstand,  rinses  it  at  the  tap,  fills  it  with  a  po 
liceman  s  drink,  and  hands  it  to  the  bridegroom. 
The  latter  downs  it  at  a  gulp.  Then  the  best 
man  pours  out  one  for  himself. 

The  ushers,  reaching  the  vestibule  of  the 
church,  have  handed  their  silk  hats  to  the  sex 
ton,  and  entered  the  sacred  edifice.  There 
was  a  rehearsal  of  the  wedding  last  night,  but 
after  it  was  over  the  bride  ordered  certain  in 
comprehensible  changes  in  the  plan,  and  the 
ushers  are  now  completely  at  sea.  All  they 
know  clearly  is  that  the  relatives  of  the  bride 
are  to  be  seated  on  one  side  and  the  relatives 
of  the  bridegroom  on  the  other.  But  which 
side  for  one  and  which  for  the  other?  They 
discuss  it  heatedly  for  three  minutes  and  then 
find  that  they  stand  three  for  putting  the  bride's 


60  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

relatives  on  the  left  side  and  three  for  putting 
them  on  the  right  side.  The  debate,  though  in 
structive,  is  interrupted  by  the  sudden  entrance 
of  seven  women  in  a  group.  They  are  headed 
by  a  truculent  old  battleship,  possibly  an  aunt 
or  something  of  the  sort,  who  fixes  the  nearest 
usher  with  a  knowing,  suspicious  glance,  and 
motions  to  him  to  show  her  the  way. 

He  offers  her  his  right  arm  and  they  start 
up  the  center  aisle,  with  the  six  other  women 
following  in  irregular  order,  and  the  five  other 
ushers  scattered  among  the  women.  The  lead 
ing  usher  is  tortured  damnably  by  doubts  as 
to  where  the  party  should  go.  If  they  are 
aunts,  to  which  house  do  they  belong,  and  on 
which  side  are  the  members  of  that  house  to  be 
seated?  What  if  they  are  not  aunts,  but  mere 
ly  neighbors?  Or  perhaps  an  association  of 
former  cooks,  parlor  maids,  nurse  girls?  Or 
strangers?  The  sufferings  of  the  usher  are 
relieved  by  the  battleship,  who  halts  majesti 
cally  about  twenty  feet  from  the  altar,  and 
motions  her  followers  into  a  pew  to  the  left. 
They  file  in  silently  and  she  seats  herself  next 
the  aisle.  All  seven  settle  back  and  wriggle 
for  room.  It  is  a  tight  ft. 

(Who,  in  point  of  fact,  are  these  ladies? 
Don't  ask  the  question!  The  ushers  never 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  61 

find  out.  No  one  ever  finds  out.  They 
remain  a  joint  mystery  for  all  time.  In 
the  end  they  become  a  sort  of  tradition,  and 
years  hence,  when  two  of  the  ushers  meet,  they 
will  cackle  over  old  dreadnaught  and  her  six 
cruisers.  The  bride,  grown  old  and  fat,  will 
tell  the  tale  to  her  daughter,  and  then  to  her 
granddaughter.  It  will  grow  more  and  more 
strange,  marvelous,  incredible.  Variorum  ver 
sions  will  spring  up.  It  will  be  adapted  to 
other  weddings.  The  dreadnought  will  be 
come  an  apparition,  a  witch,  the  Devil  in  skirts. 
And  as  the  years  pass,  the  date  of  the  episode 
will  be  pushed  back.  By  2017  it  will  be  dated 
7/50.  By  247 5  it  will  take  on  a  sort  of  sacred 
character,  and  there  will  be  a  footnote  refer 
ring  to  it  in  the  latest  Revised  Version  of  the 
New  Testament.) 

It  is  now  a  quarter  to  twelve,  and  of  a  sud 
den  the  vestibule  fills  with  wedding  guests. 
Nine-tenths  of  them,  perhaps  even  nineteen- 
twentieths,  are  women,  and  most  of  them  are 
beyond  thirty-fire.  Scattered  among  them, 
hanging  on  to  their  skirts,  arc  about  a  dozen 
little  girls — one  of  them  a  youngster  of  eight 
or  thereabout,  with  spindle  shanks  and  shining 
morning  face,  entranced  by  her  first  wedding. 
Here  and  there  lurks  a  man.  Usually  he  wears 


62  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

a  hurried,  unwilling,  protesting  look.  He  has 
been  dragged  from  his  office  on  a  busy  morn 
ing,  forced  to  rush  home  and  get  into  his  cut 
away  coat,  and  then  marched  to  the  church  by 
his  wife.  One  of  these  men,  much  hustled, 
has  forgotten  to  have  his  shoes  shined.  He 
is  intensely  conscious  of  them,  and  tries  to 
hide  them  behind  his  wife's  skirt  as  they  walk 
up  the  aisle.  Accidentally  he  steps  upon  it, 
and  gets  a  look  over  the  shoulder  which  lifts 
his  diaphragm  an  inch  and  turns  his  liver  to 
water.  This  man  will  be  courtmartialed  when 
he  reaches  home,  and  he  knows  it.  He  wishes 
that  some  foreign  power  would  invade  the 
United  States  and  burn  down  all  the  churches 
in  the  country,  and  that  the  bride,  the  bride 
groom  and  all  the  other  persons  interested  in 
the  present  wedding  were  dead  and  in  hell. 

The  ushers  do  their  best  to  seat  these  wed 
ding  guests  in  some  sort  of  order}  but  after 
a  few  minutes  the  crowd  at  the  doors  becomes 
so  large  that  they  have  to  give  it  up,  and  there 
after  all  they  can  do  is  to  hold  out  their  right 
arms  ingratiatingly  and  trust  to  luck.  One  of 
them  steps  on  a  fat  woman's  skirt,  tearing  it 
very  badly,  and  she  has  to  be  helped  back  to 
the  vestibule.  There  she  seeks  refuge  in  a 
corner,  under  a  stairway  leading  up  to  the  stee- 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  63 

pU,  and  essays  to  repair  the  damage  with  pins 
produced  from  various  nooks  and  crevices  of 
her  person.  Meanwhile  the  guilty  usher  stands 
in  front  of  her,  mumbling  apologies  and  try 
ing  to  look  helpful.  When  she  finishes  her 
work  and  emerges  from  her  improvised  dry- 
dock,  he  again  offers  her  his  arm,  but  she 
sweeps  past  him  without  noticing  him,  and  pro 
ceeds  grandly  to  a  seat  far  forward.  She  is 
a  cousin  to  the  bride's  mother,  and  will  make 
a  report  to  every  branch  of  the  family  that  all 
six  ushers  disgraced  the  ceremony  by  appearing 
at  it  far  gone  in  liquor. 

Fifteen  minutes  are  consumed  by  such  epi 
sodes  and  divertisemcnts.  By  the  time  the 
clock  in  the  steeple  strikes  twelve  the  church 
is  well  filled.  The  music  of  the  organist,  who 
has  now  reached  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song 
for  the  third  and  last  time,  is  accompanied  by 
a  huge  buzz  of  whispers,  and  there  is  much 
craning  of  necks  and  long-distance  nodding  and 
smiling.  Here  and  there  an  unusually  gor 
geous  hat  is  the  target  of  many  converging 
glances,  and  of  as  many  more  or  less  satirical 
criticisms.  To  the  damp  funeral  smell  of  the 
flowers  at  the  altar,  there  has  been  added  the 
cacodorous  scents  of  forty  or  fifty  different 
brands  of  talcum  and  rice  powder.  It  begins 


64  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

to  grow  warm  in  the  church,  and  a  number  of 
women  open  their  vanity  bags  and  duck  down 
for  stealthy  dabs  at  their  noses.  Others,  more 
reverent,  suffer  the  agony  of  augmenting  shines. 
One,  a  trickster,  has  concealed  powder  in  her 
pocket  handkerchief,  and  applies  it  dexterously 
while  pretending  to  blow  her  nose. 

The  bridegroom  in  the  vestry-room,  enter 
ing  upon  the  second  year  (or  is  it  the  third?) 
of  his  long  and  ghastly  wait,  grows  increasing 
ly  nervous,  and  when  he  hears  the  organist 
pass  from  the  Spring  Song  into  some  more 
sonorous  and  stately  thing  he  mistakes  it  for 
the  wedding  march  from  "Lohengrin,"  and  is 
hot  for  marching  upon  the  altar  at  once.  The 
best  man,  an  old  hand,  restrains  him  gently, 
and  administers  another  sedative  from  the  bot 
tle.  The  bridegroom's  thoughts  turn  to  gloomy 
things.  He  remembers  sadly  that  he  will  never 
be  able  to  laugh  at  benedicts  again;  that  his 
days  of  low,  rabelaisian  wit  and  care-free  scof 
fing  arc  over;  that  he  is  now  the  very  thing 
he  mocked  so  gaily  but  yesteryear.  Like  a 
drowning  man,  he  passes  his  whole  life  in  re 
view — not,  however,  that  part  which  is  past, 
but  that  part  which  is  to  come.  Odd  fancies 
throng  upon  him.  He  wonders  what  his  honey- 
moon  will  cost  him,  what  there  will  be  to  drink 


The  Wedding.    A  Stage  Direction  65 

at  the  wedding  breakfast,  what  a  certain  girl 
in  Chicago  will  say  when  she  hears  of  his  mar 
riage,  [fill  there  be  any  children f  He  rather 
hopes  not,  for  all  those  he  knows  appear  so 
greasy  and  noisy,  but  he  decides  that  he  might 
conceivably  compromise  on  a  boy.  But  how 
is  he  going  to  make  sure  that  it  will  not  be  a 
girl?  The  thing,  as  yet,  is  a  medical  impossi 
bility — but  medicine  is  making  rapid  strides. 
H'hy  not  wait  until  the  secret  is  discovered? 
This  sapient  compromise  pleases  the  bride 
groom,  and  he  proceeds  to  a  consideration  of 
various  problems  of  finance.  And  then,  of  a 
sudden,  the  organist  swings  unmistakably  Into 
"Lohengrin"  and  the  best  man  grabs  him  by 
the  arm. 

There  is  now  great  excitement  in  the  church. 
The  bride's  mother,  two  sisters,  three  brothers 
and  three  sisters-in-law  have  just  marched  up 
the  center  aisle  and  taken  seats  in  the  front 
PCW,  and  all  the  women  in  the  place  are  cran 
ing  their  necks  toward  the  door.  The  usual 
electrical  delay  ensues.  There  is  something  the 
matter  with  the  bride's  train,  and  the  two 
bridesmaids  have  a  deuce  of  a  time  fixing  It. 
Meanwhile  the  bride's  father,  In  tight  panta 
loons  and  tighter  gloves,  fidgets  and  fumes  in 
the  vestibule,  the  six  ushers  crowd  about  him 


66  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

inanely,  and  the  sexton  rushes  to  and  fro  like 
a  rat  in  a  trap.  Finally,  all  being  ready,  with 
the  ushers  formed  two  abreast,  the  sexton 
pushes  a  button,  a  small  buzzer  sounds  in  the 
organ  loft,  and  the  organist,  as  has  been  said, 
plunges  magnificently  into  the  fanfare  of  the 
"Lohengrin"  march.  Simultaneously  the  sex 
ton  opens  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  main 
aisle,  and  the  wedding  procession  gets  under 
weigh. 

The  bride  and  her  father  march  first.  Their 
step  is  so  slow  (about  one  beat  to  two  meas 
ures)  that  the  father  has  some  difficulty  in 
maintaining  his  equilibrium,  but  the  bride  her 
self  moves  steadily  and  erectly,  almost  seem 
ing  to  float.  Her  face  is  thickly  encrusted  with 
talcum  in  its  various  forms,  so  that  she  is  al 
most  a  dead  white.  She  keeps  her  eyelids  low 
ered  modestly,  but  is  still  acutely  aware  of 
every  glance  fastened  upon  her — not  in  the 
mass,  but  every  glance  individually.  For  ex 
ample,  she  sees  clearly,  even  through  her  eye 
lids,  the  still,  cold  smile  of  a  girl  in  Pew  8  R 
— a  girl  who  once  made  an  unwomanly  attempt 
upon  the  bridegroom's  affections,  and  was  rout 
ed  and  put  to  flight  by  superior  strategy.  And 
her  ears  are  open,  too:  she  hears  every  "How 
sweet!"  and  "Oh,  lovely!"  and  "Ain't  she 


The  Wedding.     A  Stage  Direction  67 

pale!"  from  the  latitude  of  the  last  pew  to  the 
very  glacis  of  the  altar  of  God. 

While  she  has  thus  made  ner  progress  up 
the  hymeneal  chute,  the  bridegroom  and  his 
best  man  have  emerged  from  the  vestryroom 
and  begun  the  short  march  to  the  prie-dieu. 
They  walk  haltingly,  clumsily,  uncertainly, 
stealing  occasional  glances  at  the  advancing 
bridal  party.  The  bridegroom  feels  of  his 
lower  right-hand  waistcoat  pocket;  the  ring 
is  still  there.  The  best  man  wriggles  his  cuffs. 
No  one,  however,  pays  any  heed  to  them.  They 
are  not  even  seen,  indeed,  until  the  bride  and 
her  father  reach  the  open  space  in  front  of  the 
altar.  There  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom 
find  themselves  standing  side  by  side,  but  not  a 
word  is  exchanged  between  them,  nor  even  a 
look  of  recognition.  They  stand  motionless, 
contemplating  the  ornate  cushion  at  their  feet, 
until  the  bride's  father  and  the  bridesmaids  file 
to  the  left  of  the  bride  and  the  ushers,  now 
wholly  disorganized  and  imbecile,  drape  them 
selves  in  an  irregular  file  along  the  altar  rail. 
Then,  the  music  having  died  down  to  a  faint 
murmur  and  a  hush  having  fallen  upon  the  as 
semblage,  they  look  up. 

Before  them,  framed  by  foliage,  stands  the 
reverend  gentleman  of  God  who  will  presently 


68  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

link  them  in  indissoluble  chains — the  estimable 
rector  of  the  parish.  He  has  got  there  just  in 
time;  it  was,  indeed,  a  close  shave.  But  no 
trace  of  haste  or  of  anything  else  of  a  disturb 
ing  character  is  now  visible  upon  his  smooth, 
glistening,  somewhat  feverish  face.  That  face 
is  wholly  occupied  by  his  official  smile,  a  thing 
of  oil  and  honey  all  compact,  a  balmy,  unctuous 
illumination — the  secret  of  his  success  in  life. 
Slowly  his  cheeks  puff  out,  gleaming  like  soap- 
bubbles.  Slowly  he  lifts  his  prayer-book  from 
the  prie-dieu  and  holds  it  droopingly.  Slowly 
his  soft  caressing  eyes  engage  it.  There  is  an 
almost  imperceptible  stiffening  of  his  frame. 
His  mouth  opens  with  a  faint  click.  He  begins 
to  read. 

The  Ceremony  of  Marriage  has  begun. 


IV. -THE  VISIONARY 


.— The  Visionary 


YES,"  said  Cheops,  helping  his  guest 
over  a  ticklish  place,  "I  daresay  this 
pile  of  rocks  will  last.  It  has  cost  me 
a  pretty  penny,  believe  me.  I  made 
up  my  mind  at  the  start  that  it  would  be  built 
of  honest  stone,  or  not  at  all.  No  cheap  and 
shoddy  brickwork  for  me!  Look  at  Babylon. 
It's  all  brick,  and  it's  always  tumbling  down. 
My  ambassador  there  tells  me  that  it  costs  a 
million  a  year  to  keep  up  the  walls  alone- 
mind  you,  the  walls  alone  1  What  must  it  cost 
to  keep  up  the  palace,  with  all  that  fancy  work! 
**Yes,  I  grant  you  that  brickwork  looks  good. 
But  what  of  it?  So  does  a  cheap  cotton  night 
shirt — you  know  the  gaudy  things  those  The- 
ban  peddlers  sell  to  my  sand-hogs  down  on  the 
river  bank.  But  does  it  last?  Of  course  it 
doesn't.  Well,  I  am  putting  up  this  pyramid 
to  stay  put,  and  I  don't  give  a  damn  for  its 
looks.  I  hear  all  sorts  of  funny  cracks  about 
it.  My  barber  is  a  sharp  nigger  and  keeps  his 
ears  open:  he  brings  me  all  the  gossip.  But  I 

71 


72  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

let  it  go.  This  is  my  pyramid.  I  am  putting 
up  the  money  for  it,  and  I  have  got  to  be  mor 
tared  up  in  it  when  I  die.  So  I  am  trying  to 
make  a  good,  substantial  job  of  it,  and  letting 
the  mere  beauty  of  it  go  hang. 

"Anyhow,  there  are  plenty  of  uglier  things 
in  Egypt.  Look  at  some  of  those  fifth-rate 
pyramids  up  the  river.  When  it  comes  to  shape 
they  are  pretty  much  the  same  as  this  one,  and 
when  it  comes  to  size,  they  look  like  warts  be 
side  it.  And  look  at  the  Sphinx.  There  is 
something  that  cost  four  millions  if  it  cost  a 
copper — and  what  is  it  now?  A  burlesque !  A 
caricature!  An  architectural  cripple !  So  long 
as  it  was  new,  good  enough !  It  was  a  showy 
piece  of  work.  People  came  all  the  way  from 
Sicyonia  and  Tyre  to  gape  at  it.  Everybody 
said  it  was  one  of  the  sights  no  one  could  af 
ford  to  miss.  But  by  and  by  a  piece  began  to 
peel  off  here  and  another  piece  there,  and  then 
the  nose  cracked,  and  then  an  ear  dropped  off, 
and  then  one  of  the  eyes  began  to  get  mushy 
and  watery  looking,  and  finally  it  was  a  mere 
smudge,  a  false-face,  a  scarecrow.  My  father 
spent  a  lot  of  money  trying  to  fix  it  up,  but 
what  good  did  it  do?  By  the  time  he  had  the 
nose  cobbled  the  ears  were  loose  again,  and 
so  on.  In  the  end  he  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job. 


The  Visionary  73 

"Yes;  this  pyramid  has  kept  me  on  the  jump, 
but  I'm  going  to  stick  to  it  if  it  breaks  me. 
Some  say  I  ought  to  have  built  it  across  the 
river,  where  the  quarries  are.  Such  gabble 
makes  me  sick.  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who 
would  go  looking  around  for  such  child's-play? 
I  hope  not.  A  one-legged  man  could  have  done 
that.  Even  a  Babylonian  could  have  done  it. 
It  would  have  been  as  easy  as  milking  a  cow. 
What  /  wanted  was  something  that  would  keep 
me  on  the  jump — something  that  would  put  a 
strain  on  me.  So  I  decided  to  haul  the  whole 
business  across  the  river — six  million  tons  of 
rock.  And  when  the  engineers  said  that  it 
couldn't  be  done,  I  gave  them  two  days  to  get 
out  of  Egypt,  and  then  tackled  it  myself.  It 
was  something  new  and  hard.  It  was  a  job 
I  could  get  my  teeth  into. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  know  what  a  time  I 
had  of  it  at  the  start.  First  I  tried  a  pontoon 
bridge,  but  the  stones  for  the  bottom  course 
were  so  heavy  that  they  sank  the  pontoons,  and 
I  lost  a  couple  of  hundred  niggers  before  I 
saw  that  it  couldn't  be  done.  Then  I  tried  a 
big  raft,  but  in  order  to  get  her  to  float  with 
the  stones  I  had  to  use  such  big  logs  that  she 
was  unwieldy,  and  before  I  knew  what  had 
struck  me  I  had  lost  six  big  dressed  stones  and 


74  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

another  hundred  niggers.  I  got  the  laugh, 
of  course.  Every  numskull  in  Egypt  wagged 
his  beard  over  it;  I  could  hear  the  chatter  my 
self.  But  I  kept  quiet  and  stuck  to  the  prob 
lem,  and  by  and  by  I  solved  it. 

"I  suppose  you  know  how  I  did  it.  In  a 
general  way?  Well,  the  details  are  simple. 
First  I  made  a  new  raft,  a  good  deal  lighter 
than  the  old  one,  and  then  I  got  a  thousand 
water-tight  goat-skins  and  had  them  blown  up 
until  they  were  as  tight  as  drums.  Then  I  got 
together  a  thousand  niggers  who  were  good 
swimmers,  and  gave  each  of  them  one  of  the 
blown-up  goat-skins.  On  each  goat-skin  there 
was  a  leather  thong,  and  on  the  bottom  of  the 
raft,  spread  over  it  evenly,  there  were  a  thou 
sand  hooks.  Do  you  get  the  idea?  Yes;  that's 
it  exactly.  The  niggers  dived  overboard  with 
the  goat-skins,  swam  under  the  raft,  and  tied 
the  thongs  to  the  hooks.  And  when  all  of  them 
were  tied  on,  the  raft  floated  like  a  bladder. 
You  simply  couldn't  sink  it. 

"Naturally  enough,  the  thing  took  time,  and 
there  were  accidents  and  setbacks.  For  in 
stance,  some  of  the  niggers  were  so  light  in 
weight  that  they  couldn't  hold  their  goat-skins 
under  water  long  enough  to  get  them  under  the 
raft.  I  had  to  weight  those  fellows  by  having 


The  Visionary  75 

rocks  tied  around  their  middles.  And  when 
they  had  fastened  their  goat-skins  and  tried  to 
swim  back,  some  of  them  were  carried  down 
by  the  rocks.  I  never  made  any  exact  count, 
but  I  suppose  that  two  or  three  hundred  of 
them  were  drowned  in  that  way.  Besides,  a 
couple  of  hundred  were  drowned  because  they 
couldn't  hold  their  breaths  long  enough  to  swim 
under  the  raft  and  back.  But  what  of  it?  I 
wasn't  trying  to  hoard  up  niggers,  but  to  make 
a  raft  that  would  float.  And  I  did  it. 

"Well,  once  I  showed  how  it  could  be  done, 
all  the  wiseacres  caught  the  idea,  and  after  that 
I  put  a  big  gang  to  work  making  more  rafts, 
and  by  and  by  I  had  sixteen  of  them  in  opera 
tion,  and  was  hauling  more  stone  than  the  ma 
sons  could  set.  But  I  won't  go  into  all  that. 
Here  is  the  pyramid;  it  speaks  for  itself.  One 
year  more  and  I'll  have  the  top  course  laid  and 
begin  on  the  surfacing.  I  am  going  to  make 
it  plain  marble,  with  no  fancy  work.  I  could 
bring  in  a  gang  of  Theban  stonecutters  and 
have  it  carved  all  over  with  lions'  heads  and 
tiger  claws  and  all  that  sort  of  gim-crackery, 
but  why  waste  time  and  money?  This  isn't  a 
menagerie,  but  a  pyramid.  My  idea  was  to 
make  it  the  boss  pyramid  of  the  world.  The 


76  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

king  who  tries  to  beat  it  will  have  to  get  up 
pretty  early  in  the  morning. 

"But  what  troubles  I  have  had!    Believe  me, 
there   has   been   nothing  but  trouble,   trouble, 
trouble  from  the  start.     I  set  aside  the  engi 
neering  difficulties.     They  were  hard  for  the 
engineers,  but  easy  for  me,  once  I  put  my  mind 
on  them.     But  the  way  these  niggers  have  car 
ried  on  has  been  something  terrible.     At  the 
beginning  I  had  only  a  thousand  or  two,  and 
they  all  came  from  one  tribe ;  so  they  got  along 
fairly   well.      During   the    whole    first   year   I 
doubt  that  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  were 
killed  in  fights.     But  then  I  began  to  get  fresh 
batches  from  up  the  river,   and  after  that  it 
was  nothing  but  one  fight  after  another.     For 
two  weeks  running  not  a  stroke  of  work  was 
done.     I  really  thought,  at  one  time,  that  I'd 
have  to  give  up.    But  finally  the  army  put  down 
the  row,  and  after  a  couple  of  hundred  of  the 
ringleaders    had   been   thrown    into    the    river 
peace  was  restored.     But  it  cost  me,  first  and 
last,  fully  three  thousand  niggers,  and  set  me 
back  at  least  six  months. 

"Then  came  the  so-called  labor  unions,  and 
the  strikes,  and  more  trouble.  These  labor 
unions  were  started  by  a  couple  of  smart,  yel 
low  niggers  from  Chaldea,  one  of  them  a  sort 


The  J'urionary  77 

of  lay  preacher,  a  fellow  with  a  lot  of  gab. 
Before  I  got  wind  of  them,  they  had  gone  so 
far  it  was  almost  impossible  to  squelch  them. 
First  I  tried  conciliation,  but  it  didn't  work  a 
bit.  They  made  the  craziest  demands  you  ever 
heard  of — a  holiday  every  six  days,  meat  every 
day,  no  night  work  and  regular  houses  to  live 
in.  Some  of  them  even  had  the  effrontery  to 
ask  for  money!  Think  of  it!  Niggers  asking 
for  money!  Finally,  I  had  to  order  out  the 
army  again  and  let  some  blood.  But  every 
time  one  was  knocked  over,  I  had  to  get  an 
other  one  to  take  his  place,  and  that  meant 
sending  the  army  up  the  river,  and  more  ex 
pense,  and  more  devilish  worry  and  nuisance. 
uln  my  grandfather's  time  niggers  were  hon 
est  and  faithful  workmen.  You  could  take  one 
fresh  from  the  bush,  teach  him  to  handle  a 
shovel  or  pull  a  rope  in  a  year  or  so,  and  after 
that  he  was  worth  almost  as  much  as  he  could 
eat.  But  the  nigger  of  to-day  isn't  worth  a 
damn.  He  never  does  an  honest  day's  work  if 
he  can  help  it,  and  he  is  forever  wanting  some 
thing.  Take  these  fellows  I  have  now — main 
ly  young  bucks  from  around  the  First  Cataract. 
Here  are  niggers  who  never  saw  baker's  bread 
or  butcher's  meat  until  my  men  grabbed  them. 
They  lived  there  in  the  bush  like  so  many  hy- 


78  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

enas.  They  were  ten  days'  march  from  a 
lemon.  Well,  now  they  get  first-class  beef 
twice  a  week,  good  bread  and  all  the  fish  they 
can  catch.  They  don't  have  to  begin  work  un 
til  broad  daylight,  and  they  lay  off  at  dark. 
There  is  hardly  one  of  them  that  hasn't  got  a 
psaltery,  or  a  harp,  or  some  other  musical  in 
strument.  If  they  want  to  dress  up  and  make 
believe  they  are  Egyptians,  I  give  them  clothes. 
If  one  of  them  is  killed  on  the  work,  or  by  a 
stray  lion,  or  in  a  fight,  I  have  him  embalmed 
by  my  own  embalmers  and  plant  him  like  a 
man.  If  one  of  them  breaks  a  leg  or  loses  an 
arm  or  gets  too  old  to  work,  I  turn  him  loose 
without  complaining,  and  he  is  free  to  go  home 
if  he  wants  to. 

"But  are  they  contented?  Do  they  show 
any  gratitude?  Not  at  all.  Scarcely  a  day 
passes  that  I  don't  hear  of  some  fresh  sol 
diering.  And,  what  is  worse,  they  have  stirred 
up  some  of  my  own  people — the  carpenters, 
stone-cutters,  gang  bosses  and  so  on.  Every 
now  and  then  my  inspectors  find  some  rotten 
libel  cut  on  a  stone — something  to  the  effect 
that  I  am  overworking  them,  and  knocking 
them  about,  and  holding  them  against  their 
will,  and  generally  mistreating  them.  I  haven't 
the  slightest  doubt  that  some  of  these  inscrip- 


Tlic  Visionary  79 

tions  have  actually  gone  into  the  pyramid:  it's 
impossible  to  watch  every  stone.  Well,  in  the 
years  to  come,  they  will  be  dug  out  and  read 
by  strangers,  and  I  will  get  a  black  eye.  Peo 
ple  will  think  of  Cheops  as  a  heartless  old 
rapscallion — me,  mind  you !  Can  you  beat  it?" 


V.-THE  ARTIST 


V.—The  Artist.     A  Drama 
Without  Words 

CHARACTERS: 

A  GREAT  PIANIST 

A  JANITOR 

Six  MUSICAL  CRITICS 

A  MARRIED  WOMAN 

A  VIRGIN 

SIXTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FORTY-THREE  OTHER 

WOMEN 
Six  OTHER  MEN 

PLACE — A  City  of  the  United  States. 

TIME — A  December  afternoon. 

(During  the  action  of  the  play  not  a  word 
is  uttered  aloud.  All  of  the  speeches  of  the 
characters  are  supposed  to  be  unspoken  medi 
tations  only.) 

A  large,  gloomy  hall,  with  many  rows  of 
uncushioned,  uncomfortable  seats,  designed,  it 

83 


84  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

would  seem,  by  some  one  misinformed  as  to 
the  average  width  of  the  normal  human  pelvis. 
A  number  of  busts  of  celebrated  composer st 
once  white,  but  now  a  dirty  gray,  stand  in 
niches  along  the  walls.  At  one  end  of  the 
hall  there  is  a  bare,  uncarpeted  stage,  with 
nothing  on  it  save  a  grand  piano  and  a  chair. 
It  is  raining  outside,  and,  as  hundreds  of  peo 
ple  come  crowding  in,  the  air  is  laden  with  the 
mingled  scents  of  umbrellas,  raincoats,  go 
loshes,  cosmetics,  perfumery  and  wet  hair. 

At  eight  minutes  past  four,  THE  JANITOR, 
after  smoothing  his  hair  with  his  hands  and 
putting  on  a  pair  of  detachable  cuffs,  emerges 
from  the  wings  and  crosses  the  stage,  his  shoes 
squeaking  hideously  at  each  step.  Arriving  at 
the  piano,  he  opens  it  with  solemn  slowness. 
The  job  seems  so  absurdly  trivial,  even  to  so 
mean  an  understanding,  that  he  can't  refrain 
from  glorifying  it  with  a  bit  of  hocus-pocus. 
This  takes  the  form  of  a  careful  adjustment 
of  a  mysterious  something  within  the  instru 
ment.  He  reaches  in,  pauses  a  moment  as  if 
in  doubt,  reaches  in  again,  and  then  permits  a 
faint  smile  of  conscious  sapience  and  efficiency 
to  illuminate  his  face.  All  of  this  accomplished, 
he  tiptoes  back  to  the  wings,  his  shoes  again 
squeaking. 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words     85 


THE  JANITOR 

Now  all  of  them  people  think  I'm  the  pro 
fessor's  tuner.  ( The  thought  gives  him  such 
delight  that,  for  the  moment,  his  brain  is 
numbed.  Then  he  proceeds.)  I  guess  them 
tuners  make  pretty  good  money.  I  wish  I  could 
get  the  hang  of  the  trick.  It  looks  easy.  (By 
this  time  he  has  disappeared  in  the  wings  and 
the  stage  is  again  a  desert.  Two  or  three 
women,  far  back  in  the  hall,  start  a  half 
hearted  handclapping.  It  dies  out  at  once. 
The  noise  of  rustling  programs  and  shuffling 
feet  succeeds  it.) 

FOUR  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 

Oh,  I  do  certainly  hope  he  plays  that  lovely 
False  Poupee  as  an  encore !  They  say  he  does 
it  better  than  Bloomfield-Zeisler. 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 

I  hope  the  animal  doesn't  pull  any  encore 
numbers  that  I  don't  recognize.  All  of  these 
people  will  buy  the  paper  to-morrow  morning 
just  to  find  out  what  they  have  heard.  It's  in 
fernally  embarrassing  to  have  to  ask  the  man- 


86  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

ager.  The  public  expects  a  musical  critic  to 
be  a  sort  of  walking  thematic  catalogue.  The 
public  is  an  ass. 

THE  Six  OTHER  MEN 

Oh,  Lord!  What  a  way  to  spend  an  after 
noon! 

A  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 
I  wonder  if  he's  as  handsome  as  Paderewski. 

ANOTHER  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 

I  wonder  if  he's  as  gentlemanly  as  Josef 
Hofmann. 

STILL  ANOTHER  HUNDRED  WOMEN 

I  wonder  if  he's  as  fascinating  as  De  Pach- 
mann. 

YET  OTHER  HUNDREDS 

I  wonder  if  he  has  dark  eyes.  You  never 
can  tell  by  those  awful  photographs  in  the 
newspapers. 

HALF  A  DOZEN  WOMEN 
I  wonder  if  he  can  really  play  the  piano. 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Word*     87 

THE  CRITIC  AFORESAID 

What  a  hell  of  a  wait!  These  rotten  piano- 
thumping  immigrants  deserve  a  hard  call-down. 
But  what's  the  use?  The  piano  manufacturers 
bring  them  over  here  to  wallop  their  pianos— 
and  the  piano  manufacturers  are  not  afraid 
to  advertise.  If  you  knock  them  too  hard  you 
have  a  nasty  business-office  row  on  your  hands. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

If  they  allowed  smoking,  it  wouldn't  be  so 

bad. 

ANOTHER  MAN 

I  wonder  if  that  woman  across  the  aisle 

(THE  GREAT  PIANIST  bounces  upon  the 
stage  so  suddenly  that  he  is  bowing  in  the  cen 
ter  before  any  one  thinks  to  applaud.  He  makes 
three  stiff  bows.  At  the  second  the  applause 
begins,  swelling  at  once  to  a  roar.  He  steps 
up  to  the  piano,  bows  three  times  more,  and 
then  sits  down.  He  hunches  his  shoulders, 
reaches  for  the  pedals  with  his  feet,  spreads 
out  his  hands  and  waits  for  the  clapper-clawing 
to  cease.  He  is  an  undersized,  paunchy  East 
German,  with  hair  the  color  of  wet  hay,  and  an 


88  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

extremely  pallid  complexion.  Talcum  powder 
hides  the  fact  that  his  nose  is  shiny  and  some 
what  pink.  His  eyebrows  are  carefully  pen 
ciled  and  there  are  artificial  shadows  under  his 
eyes.  His  face  is  absolutely  expressionless.) 

THE  VIRGIN 
Oh! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMEN 
Oh! 

THE  OTHER  WOMEN 

Oh!     How  dreadfully  handsome! 

THE  VIRGIN 

Oh,  such  eyes,  such  depth !  How  he  must 
have  suffered!  I'd  like  to  hear  him  play  the 
Prelude  in  D  flat  major.  It  would  drive  you 
crazy! 

A  HUNDRED  OTHER  WOMEN 
I  certainly  do  hope  he  plays  some  Schumann. 

OTHER  WOMEN 
What  beautiful  hands!     I  could  kiss  them! 

(THE  GREAT  PIANIST,  throwing  back  his 
head,  strikes  the  massive  opening  chords  of  a 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words     89 

Beethoven  sonata.  There  is  a  sudden  hush  and 
each  note  is  heard  clearly.  The  tempo  of  the 
first  movement,  which  begins  after  a  grand 
pause,  is  allegro  con  brio,  and  the  first  subject 
is  given  out  in  a  sparkling  cascade  of  sound. 
But,  despite  the  buoyancy  of  the  music,  there 
is  an  unmistakable  undercurrent  of  melancholy 
in  the  playing.  The  audience  doesn't  fail  to 
notice  it.) 

THE  VIRGIN 

Oh,  perfect!  I  could  love  him!  Paderewski 
played  it  like  a  fox  trot.  What  poetry  he  puts 
into  it!  I  can  see  a  soldier  lover  marching 
off  to  war. 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 

The  ass  is  dragging  it.  Doesn't  con  brio 
mean — well,  what  the  devil  does  it  mean?  I 
forget.  I  must  look  it  up  before  I  write  the 
notice.  Somehow,  brio  suggests  cheese.  Any 
how,  Pachmann  plays  it  a  damn  sight  faster. 
It's  safe  to  say  that,  at  all  events. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

Oh,  I  could  listen  to  that  sonata  all  day! 
The  poetry  he  puts  into  it — even  into  the 


90  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

allegro!    Just  think  what  the  andante  will  be! 
I  like  music  to  be  sad. 

ANOTHER  WOMAN 
What  a  sob  he  gets  into  it! 

MANY  OTHER  WOMEN 
How  exquisite ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

(Gathering  himself  together  for  the  difficult 
development  section.)  That  American  beer 
will  be  the  death  of  me!  I  wonder  what  they 
put  in  it  to  give  it  its  gassy  taste.  And  the  so- 
called  German  beer  they  sell  over  here — du 
heiliger  Herr  Jesu!  Even  Bremen  would  be 
ashamed  of  it.  In  Miinchen  the  police  would 
take  a  hand. 

(Aiming  for  the  first  and  second  C's  above 
the  staff,  he  accidentally  strikes  the  C  sharps 
instead  and  has  to  transpose  three  measures  to 
get  back  into  the  key.  The  eject  is  harrow 
ing,  and  he  gives  his  audience  a  swift  glance 
of  apprehension.) 

Two  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  WOMEN 
What  new  beauties  he  gets  out  of  it  I 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words    91 

A  MAN 
He  can  tickle  the  ivories,  all  right,  all  right! 

A  CRITIC 

Well,  at  any  rate,  he  doesn't  try  to  imitate 
Paderewski. 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

(Relieved  by  the  non-appearance  of  the 
hisses  he  expected.)  Well,  it's  lucky  for  me 
that  I'm  not  in  Leipzig  to-day!  But  in  Leipzig 
an  artist  runs  no  risks:  the  beer  is  pure.  The 
authorities  see  to  that.  The  worse  enemy  of 
technic  is  biliousness,  and  biliousness  is  sure 
to  follow  bad  beer.  (He  get  to  the  coda  at 
last  and  takes  it  at  a  somewhat  livelier  pace.) 

THE  VIRGIN 

How  I  envy  the  woman  he  loves!  How  it 
would  thrill  me  to  feel  his  arms  about  me — to 
be  drawn  closer,  closer,  closer!  I  would  give 
up  the  whole  world!  What  are  conventions, 
prejudices,  legal  forms,  morality,  after  all? 
Vanities!  Love  is  beyond  and  above  them  all 
— and  art  is  love!  I  think  I  must  be  a  pagan. 


92  A  Book  of  Burlesques 


THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

And  the  herring!    Good  God,  what  herring! 
These  barbarous  Americans 


THE  VIRGIN 

Really,  I  am  quite  indecent!  I  should  blush, 
I  suppose.  But  love  is  never  ashamed — How 
people  misunderstand  me! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

I  wonder  if  he's  faithful.  The  chances  are 
against  it.  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  was. 
(An  agreeable  melancholy  overcomes  her  and 
she  gives  herself  up  to  the  mood  without 
thought.) 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

I  wonder  whatever  became  of  that  girl  in 
Dresden.  Every  time  I  think  of  her,  she  sug 
gests  pleasant  thoughts — good  beer,  a  fine 
band,  Gemiitlichkeit.  I  must  have  been  in  love 
with  her — not  much,  of  course,  but  just  enough 
to  make  things  pleasant.  And  not  a  single  let 
ter  from  her!  I  suppose  she  thinks  I'm  starv 
ing  to  death  over  here — or  tuning  pianos. 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words     93 

Well,  when  I  get  back  with  the  money  there'll 
be  a  shock  for  her.  A  shock — but  not  a 
Pfennig! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

(Her  emotional  coma  ended.)  Still,  you  can 
hardly  blame  him.  There  must  be  a  good  deal 
of  temptation  for  a  great  artist.  All  of  these 
frumps  here  would 

THE  VIRGIN 

Ah,  how  dolorous,  how  exquisite  is  love! 
How  small  the  world  would  seem  if 


THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

Of  course  you  could  hardly  call  such  old 
scarecrows  temptations.  But  still 

(THE  GREAT  PIANIST  comes  to  the  last 
measure  of  the  coda — a  passage  of  almost 
Haydnesque  clarity  and  spirit.  As  he  strikes 
the  broad  chord  of  the  tonic  there  comes  a  roar 
of  applause.  He  arises,  moves  a  step  or  two 
down  the  stage,  and  makes  a  series  of  low  bows, 
his  hands  to  his  heart.) 


94  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

(Bowing.}  I  wonder  why  the  American 
women  always  wear  raincoats  to  piano  recitals. 
Even  when  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  one  sees 
hundreds  of  them.  What  a  disagreeable  smell 
they  give  to  the  hall.  (More  applause  and 
more  bows.)  An  American  audience  always 
smells  of  rubber  and  lilies-of-the-valley.  How 
different  in  London!  There  an  audience  al 
ways  smells  of  soap.  In  Paris  it  reminds  you 
of  sachet  bags — and  lingerie. 

( The  applause  ceases  and  he  returns  to  the 
piano.) 

And  now  comes  that  verfluchte  adagio. 

(As  he  begins  to  play,  a  deathlike  silence 
falls  upon  the  hall.) 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 
What  rotten  pedaling  I 

ANOTHER  CRITIC 

A  touch  like  a  xylophone  player,  but  he 
knows  how  to  use  his  feet.  That  suggests  a 
good  line  for  the  notice — "he  plays  better  with 
his  feet  than  with  his  hands,"  or  something 
like  that.  I'll  have  to  think  it  over  and  polish 
it  up. 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words    95 

ONE  OF  THE  OTHER  MEN 

Now  comes  some  more  of  that  awful  classi 
cal  stuff. 

THE  VIRGIN 

Suppose  he  can't  speak  English?  But  that 
wouldn't  matter.  Nothing  matters.  Love  is 
beyond  and  above 

Six  HUNDRED  WOMEN 
Oh,  how  beautiful! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
Perfect! 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 

(Sinking  quickly  into  the  slumber  which  al 
ways  overtakes  him  during  the  adagio.)  C-c-c- 
c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h ! 

THE  YOUNGEST  CRITIC 

There  is  that  old  fraud  asleep  again.  And 
to-morrow  he'll  print  half  a  column  of  vapid 
reminiscence  and  call  it  criticism.  It's  a  won 
der  his  paper  stands  for  him.  Because  he  once 
heard  Liszt,  he  ... 


96  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

That  plump  girl  over  there  on  the  left  is  not 
so  bad.  As  for  the  rest,  I  beg  to  be  excused. 
The  American  women  have  no  more  shape 
than  so  many  matches.  They  are  too  tall  and 
too  thin.  I  like  a  nice  rubbery  armful — like 
that  Dresden  girl.  Or  that  harpist  in  Moscow 
—the  girl  with  the  Pilsner  hair.  Let  me  see, 
what  was  her  name?  Oh,  Fritzi,  to  be  sure — 
but  her  last  name?  Schmidt?  Kraus?  Meyer? 
I'll  have  to  try  to  think  of  it,  and  send  her 
a  postcard. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
What  delicious  flutelike  tones! 

ONE  OF  THE  WOMEN 

If  Beethoven  could  only  be  here  to  hear  it! 
He  would  cry  for  very  joy!  Maybe  he  does 
hear  it.  Who  knows?  I  believe  he  does.  I 
am  sure  he  does. 

(THE  GREAT  PIANIST  reaches  the  end  of 
the  adagio,  and  there  is  another  burst  of  ap 
plause,  which  awakens  THE  DEAN  OF  THE 
CRITICS.) 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words     97 


THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Oh,  piffle!  Compared  to  Gottschalk,  the 
man  is  an  amateur.  Let  him  go  back  to  the 
conservatory  for  a  couple  of  years. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

(Looking  at  his  program.)  Next  comes  the 
shirt-so.  I  hope  it  has  some  tune  in  it. 

THE  VIRGIN 

The  adagio  is  love's  agony,  but  the  scherzo 
is  love  triumphant.  What  beautiful  eyes  he 
has!  And  how  pale  he  is! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

(Resuming  his  grim  toil.)  Well,  there's 
half  of  it  over.  But  this  scherzo  is  ticklish 
business.  That  horrible  evening  in  Prague — 
will  I  ever  forget  it?  Those  hisses — and  the 
papers  next  day! 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

Go  it,  professor!  That's  the  best  you've 
done  yet  I 


98  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Too  fasti 

ANOTHER  CRITIC 

Too  slow! 

A  YOUNG  GIRL 

My,  but  ain't  the  professor  just  full  of 
talent ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

Well,  so  far  no  accident.  (He  negotiates  a 
difficult  passage,  and  plays  it  triumphantly,  but 
at  some  expenditure  of  cold  perspiration.) 
What  a  way  for  a  man  to  make  a  living! 

THE  VIRGIN 

What  passion  he  puts  into  it!  His  soul  is 
in  his  finger-tips. 

A  CRITIC 
A  human  pianola  I 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

This  scherzo  always  fetches  the  women.  I 
can  hear  them  draw  long  breaths.  That  plump 
girl  is  getting  pale.  Well,  why  shouldn't  she? 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Words    99 

I  suppose  I'm  about  the  best  pianist  she  has 
ever  heard — or  ever  will  hear.  What  people 
can  see  in  that  Hambourg  fellow  I  never  could 
imagine.  In  Chopin,  Schumann,  Grieg,  you 
might  fairly  say  he's  pretty  good.  But  it  takes 
an  artist  to  play  Beethoven.  (He  rattles  on  to 
the  end  of  the  scherzo  and  there  is  more  ap 
plause.  Then  he  dashes  into  the  finale.) 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Too  loud!  Too  loud!  It  sounds  like  an 
ash-cart  going  down  an  alley.  But  what  can 
you  expect?  Piano-playing  is  a  lost  art. 
Paderewski  ruined  it. 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

I  ought  to  clear  200,000  marks  by  this 
tournee.  If  it  weren't  for  those  thieving  agents 
and  hotelkeepers,  I'd  make  300,000.  Just 
think  of  it — twenty-four  marks  a  day  for  a 
room !  That's  the  way  these  Americans  treat 
a  visiting  artist!  The  country  is  worse  than 
Bulgaria.  I  was  treated  better  at  Bucharest. 
Well,  it  won't  last  forever.  As  soon  as  I  get 
enough  of  their  money  they'll  see  me  no  more. 
Vienna  is  the  place  to  settle  down.  A  nice 
studio  at  fifty  marks  a  month — and  the  life  of 


100  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

a  gentleman.  What  was  the  name  of  that  little 
red-cheeked  girl  at  the  cafe  in  the  Franz- 
josefstrasse — that  girl  with  the  gold  tooth  and 
the  silk  stockings?  I'll  have  to  look  her  up. 

THE  VIRGIN 
What  an  artist!     What  a  master!     What 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
Has  he  really  suffered,  or  is  it  just  intuition? 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

No,  marriage  is  a  waste  of  money.  Let  the 
other  fellow  marry  her.  (He  approaches  the 
closing  measures  of  the  finale.)  And  now  for 
a  breathing  spell  and  a  swallow  of  beer. 
American  beer!  Bah!  But  it's  better  than 
nothing.  The  Americans  drink  water.  Cat 
tle!  Animals!  Ach,  Miinchen,  wie  hist  du  so 
schon! 

(As  he  concludes  there  is  a  whirlwind  of  ap 
plause  and  he  is  forced  to  bow  again  and  again. 
Finally,  he  is  permitted  to  retire,  and  the  audi 
ence  prepares  to  spend  the  short  intermission  in 
whispering,  grunting,  wriggling,  scraping  its 
feet,  rustling  its  programs  and  gaping  at  hats. 


The  Artist.    A  Drama  Without  Word*  101 

The  Six  MUSICAL  CRITICS  and  Six  OTHER 
MEN,  their  lips  parched  and  their  eyes  staring, 
gallop  for  the  door.  As  THE  GREAT  PIANIST 
comes  from  the  staget  THE  JANITOR  meets  him 
with  a  large  seldel  of  beer.  He  seizes  it 
eagerly  and  downs  it  at  a  gulp.) 

THE  JANITOR 

My,  but  them  professors  can  put  the  stuff 
away  I 


VI. -SEEING  THE  WORLD 


VI— Seeing  The  World 


THE  scene  is  the  brow  of  the  Hunger- 
berg  at  Innsbruck.  It  is  the  half  hour 
before  sunsett  and  the  whole  lovely 
•valley  of  the  Inn — still  wie  die  Nacht, 
tief  wie  das  Meer — begins  to  glow  with 
mauve s  and  apple  greens,  apricots  and  silvery 
blues.  Along  the  peaks  of  the  great  snowy 
mountains  which  shut  it  in,  as  if  from  the  folly 
and  misery  of  the  world,  there  are  touches  of 
piercing  primary  colours — red,  yellow,  violet. 
Far  below,  hugging  the  winding  river,  lies  lit 
tle  Innsbruck,  with  its  checkerboard  parks  and 
Christmas  garden  villas.  A  battalion  of  Aus 
trian  soldiers,  drilling  in  the  Exerzierplatz, 
appears  as  an  army  of  grey  ants,  now  barely 
visible.  Somewhere  to  the  left,  beyond  the 
broad  flank  of  the  Hungcrberg,  the  night  train 
for  Venice  labours  toward  the  town. 

It  is  a  superbly  beautiful  scene,  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  in  all  Europe.  It  has  colour, 
dignity,  repose.  The  Alps  here  come  down  a 
bit  and  so  increase  their  spell.  They  are  not 

105 


106  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

the  harsh  precipices  of  Switzerland,  nor  the 
too  charming  stage  mountains  of  the  Trenlino, 
but  rolling  billows  of  clouds  and  snow,  the  high 
flung  waves  of  some  titanic  but  striken  ocean. 
Now  and  then  comes  a  faint  clank  of  metal 
from  the  funicular  railway,  but  the  tracks  them 
selves  are  hidden  among  the  trees  of  the  lower 
slopes.  The  tinkle  of  an  angelus  bell  (or 
maybe  it  is  only  a  sheep  bell)  is  heard  from 
afar.  A  great  bird,  an  eagle  or  a  falcon, 
sweeps  across  the  crystal  spaces. 

Here  where  we  are  is  a  shelf  on  the  moun 
tainside,  and  the  hand  of  man  has  converted 
it  into  a  terrace.  To  the  rear,  clinging  to  the 
mountain,  is  an  Alpine  gasthaus — a  bit  over 
done,  perhaps,  with  its  red-framed  windows 
and  elaborate  fretwork,  but  still  genuinely  of 
the  Alps.  Along  the  front  of  the  terrace,  pro 
tecting  sightseers  from  the  sheer  drop  of  a 
thousand  feet,  is  a  stout  wooden  rail. 

A  man  in  an  American  sack  suit,  with  a 
bowler  hat  on  his  head,  lounges  against  this 
rail.  His  elbows  rest  upon  it,  his  legs  are 
crossed  in  the  fashion  of  a  figure  four,  and 
his  face  is  buried  in  the  red  book  of  Ilerr 
Baedeker.  It  is  the  volume  on  Southern  Ger 
many,  and  he  is  reading  the  list  of  Munich  ho 
tels.  Now  and  then  he  stops  to  mark  one  with 


Seeing  the  World  107 

a  pencil,  which  he  wets  at  his  lips  each  time. 
While  he  is  thus  engaged,  another  man  comes 
ambling  along  the  terrace,  apparently  from  the 
direction  of  the  funicular  railway  station.  He, 
too,  carries  a  red  book.  It  is  Baedeker  on 
Austria-Hungary.  After  gaping  around  him  a 
bitt  this  second  man  approaches  the  rail  near 
the  other  and  leans  his  elbows  upon  it.  Pres 
ently  he  takes  a  package  of  chewing  gum  from 
his  coat  pocket,  selects  two  pieces,  puts  them 
into  his  mouth  and  begins  to  chew.  Then  he 
spits  idly  into  space,  idly  but  homerically,  a 
truly  stupendous  expectoration,  a  staggering 
discharge  from  the  Alps  to  the  first  shelf  of 
the  Lombard  plain!  The  first  man,  startled 
by  the  report,  glances  up.  Their  eyes  meet  and 
there  is  a  vague  glimmer  of  recognition. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
American? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Yes;  St.  Louis. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
Been  over  long? 


108  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
A  couple  of  months. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
What  ship'd  you  come  over  in? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
The  Kronprinz  Friedrich. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Aha,  the  German  line!  I  guess  you  found 
the  grub  all  right. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Oh,  in  the  main.  I  have  eaten  better,  but 
then  again,  I  have  eaten  worse. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  they  charge  you  enough  for  it,  whether 
you  get  it  or  not.  A  man  could  live  at  the  Plaza 
cheaper. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  should  say  he  could.  What  boat  did  you 
come  over  in? 


Seeing  the  World  109 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
The  Maurcntic. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
How  is  she? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Oh,  so-so. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  hear  the  meals  on  those  English  ships  are 
nothing  to  what  they  used  to  be. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

That's  what  everybody  tells  me.  But,  as  for 
me,  I  can't  say  I  found  them  so  bad.  I  had  to 
send  back  the  potatoes  twice  and  the  breakfast 
bacon  once,  but  they  had  very  good  lima  beans. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Isn't  that  English  bacon  awful  stuff  to  get 
down? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

It  certainly  is:  all  meat  and  gristle.  I  won 
der  what  an  Englishman  would  say  if  you  put 


110  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

him  next  to  a  plate  of  genuine,  crisp,  American 
bacon. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  guess  he  would  yell  for  the  police — or 
choke  to  death. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Did  you  like  the  German  cooking  on  the 
Kronprinzf 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Well,  I  did  and  I  didn't.  The  chicken  a  la 
Maryland  was  very  good,  but  they  had  it  only 
once.  I  could  eat  it  every  day. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
Why  didn't  you  order  it? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
It  wasn't  on  the  bill. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Oh,  bill  be  damned!  You  might  have  or 
dered  it  anyhow.  Make  a  fuss  and  you'll  get 
what  you  want.  These  foreigners  have  to  be 
bossed  around.  They're  used  to  it. 


Seeing  the  World  111 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  guess  you're  right.  There  was  a  fellow 
near  me  who  set  up  a  holler  about  his  room 
the  minute  he  saw  it — said  it  was  dark  and 
musty  and  not  fit  to  pen  a  hog  in — and  they 
gave  him  one  twice  as  large,  and  the  chief 
steward  bowed  and  scraped  to  him,  and  the 
room  stewards  danced  around  him  as  if  he  was 
a  duke.  And  yet  I  heard  later  that  he  was 
nothing  but  a  Bismarck  herring  importer  from 
Hoboken. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Yes,  that's  the  way  to  get  what  you  want. 
Did  you  have  any  nobility  on  board? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Yes,  there  was  a  Hungarian  baron  in  the 
automobile  business,  and  two  English  sirs.  The 
baron  was  quite  a  decent  fellow:  I  had  a  talk 
with  him  in  the  smoking  room  one  night.  He 
didn't  put  on  any  airs  at  all.  You  would  have 
thought  he  was  an  ordinary  man.  But  the  sirs 
kept  to  themselves.  All  they  did  the  whole 
voyage  was  to  write  letters,  wear  their  dress 
suits  and  curse  the  stewards. 


112  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

They  tell  me  over  here  that  the  best  eating 
is  on  the  French  lines. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Yes,  so  I  hear.  But  some  say,  too,  that  the 
Scandinavian  lines  are  best,  and  then  again  I 
have  heard  people  boosting  the  Italian  lines. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

I  guess  each  one  has  its  points.  They  say 
that  you  get  wine  free  with  meals  on  the  French 
boats. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
But  I  hear  it's  fourth-rate  wine. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
Well,  you  don't  have  to  drink  it. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

That's  so.  But,  as  for  me,  I  can't  stand  a 
Frenchman.  I'd  rather  do  without  the  wine 
and  travel  with  the  Dutch.  Paris  is  dead  com 
pared  with  Berlin. 


Seeing  the  World  113 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

So  it  is.  But  those  Germans  are  awful 
sharks.  The  way  they  charge  in  Berlin  is 
enough  to  make  you  sick. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Don't  tell  me.  I  have  been  there.  No 
longer  ago  than  last  Tuesday — or  was  it  last 
Monday? — I  went  into  one  of  those  big  restau 
rants  on  the  Unter  den  Linden  and  ordered  a 
small  steak,  French  fried  potatoes,  a  piece  of 
pie  and  a  cup  of  coffee — and  what  do  you  think 
those  thieves  charged  me  for  it?  Three  marks 
fifty.  That's  eighty-seven  and  a  half  cents. 
Why,  a  man  could  have  got  the  same  meal  at 
home  for  a  dollar.  These  Germans  are  run 
ning  wild.  American  money  has  gone  to  their 
heads.  They  think  every  American  they  get 
hold  of  is  a  millionaire. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

The  French  are  worse.  I  went  into  a  hotel 
in  Paris  and  paid  ten  francs  a  day  for  a  room 
for  myself  and  wife,  and  when  we  left  they 
charged  me  one  franc  forty  a  day  extra  for 
sweeping  it  out  and  making  the  bed! 


114  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

That's  nothing.  Here  in  Innsbruck  they 
charge  you  half  a  krone  a  day  taxes. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
What!     You  don't  say! 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Sure  thing.  And  if  you  don't  eat  breakfast 
in  the  hotel  they  charge  you  a  krone  for  it 
anyhow. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  well,  what  next?  But,  after  all,  you 
can't  blame  them.  We  Americans  come  over 
here  and  hand  them  our  pocket-books,  and  we 
ought  to  be  glad  if  we  get  anything  back  at  all. 
The  way  a  man  has  to  tip  is  something  fearful. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Isn't  it,  though  !  I  stayed  in  Dresden  a  week, 
and  when  I  left  there  were  six  grafters  lined 
up  with  their  claws  out.  First  came  the  porter. 
Then  came — 


Seeing  the  World  115 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
How  much  did  you  give  the  porteerf 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Five  marks. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

You  gave  him  too  much.  You  ought  to  have 
given  him  about  three  marks,  or,  say,  two 
marks  fifty.  How  much  was  your  hotel  bill? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Including  everything? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
No,  just  your  bill  for  your  room. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
I  paid  six  marks  a  day. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  that  made  forty-two  marks  for  the 
week.  Now  the  way  to  figure  out  how  much 
the  porter  ought  to  get  is  easy:  a  fellow  I  met 
in  Baden-Baden  showed  me  how  to  do  it.  First, 


116  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

you  multiply  your  hotel  bill  by  two,  then  you 
divide  it  by  twenty-seven,  and  then  you  knock 
off  half  a  mark.  Twice  forty-two  is  eighty- 
four.  Twenty-seven  into  eighty-four  goes 
about  three  times,  and  half  from  three  leaves 
two  and  a  half.  See  how  easy  it  is? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

It  looks  easy,  anyhow.     But  you  haven't  got 
much  time  to  do  all  that  figuring. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  let  the  porteer  wait.  The  longer  he 
has  to  wait  the  more  he  appreciates  you. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
But  how  about  the  others? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

It's  just  as  simple.  Your  chambermaid  gets 
a  quarter  of  a  mark  for  every  day  you  have 
been  in  the  hotel.  But  if  you  stay  less  than 
four  days  she  gets  a  whole  mark  anyhow.  If 
there  are  two  in  the  party  she  gets  half  a  mark 
a  day,  but  no  more  than  three  marks  in  any 
one  week. 


Seeing  the  World  117 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

But  suppose  there  are  two  chambermaids? 
In  Dresden  there  was  one  on  day  duty  and  one 
on  night  duty.  I  left  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  so  they  were  both  on  the  job. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Don't  worry.  They'd  have  been  on  the  job 
anyhow,  no  matter  when  you  left.  But  it's  just 
as  easy  to  figure  out  the  tip  for  two  as  for  one. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  add  fifty  per  cent,  and 
then  divide  it  into  two  halves,  and  give  one  to 
each  girl.  Or,  better  still,  give  it  all  to  one 
girl  and  tell  her  to  give  half  to  her  pal.  If 
there  are  three  chambermaids,  as  you  some 
times  find  in  the  swell  hotels,  you  add  another 
fifty  per  cent,  and  then  divide  by  three.  And 
so  on. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  see.  But  how  about  the  hall  porter  and  the 
floor  waiter? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Just  as  easy.  The  hall  porter  gets  what 
ever  the  chambermaid  gets,  plus  twenty-five  per 


118  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

cent. — but  no  more  than  two  marks  in  any  one 
week.  The  floor  waiter  gets  thirty  pfennigs  a 
day  straight,  but  if  you  stay  only  one  day  he 
gets  half  a  mark,  and  if  you  stay  more  than 
a  week  he  gets  two  marks  flat  a  week  after  the 
first  week.  In  some  hotels  the  hall  porter  don't 
shine  shoes.  If  he  don't  he  gets  just  as  much 
as  if  he  does,  but  then  the  actual  "boots"  has  to 
be  taken  care  of.  He  gets  half  a  mark  every 
two  days.  Every  time  you  put  out  an  extra 
pair  of  shoes  he  gets  fifty  per  cent,  more  for 
that  day.  If  you  shine  your  own  shoes,  or  go 
without  shining  them,  the  "boots"  gets  half  his 
regular  tip,  but  never  less  than  a  mark  a  week. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Certainly  it  seems  simple  enough.  I  never 
knew  there  was  any  such  system. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

I  guess  you  didn't.  Very  few  do.  But  it's 
just  because  Americans  don't  know  it  that  these 
foreign  blackmailers  shake  'em  down.  Once 
you  let  the  porteer  see  that  you  know  the  ropes, 
he'll  pass  the  word  on  to  the  others,  and  you'll 
be  treated  like  a  native. 


Seeing  the  World  119 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  see.  But  how  about  the  elevator  boy?  I 
gave  the  elevator  boy  in  Dresden  two  marks 
and  he  almost  fell  on  my  neck,  so  I  figured  that 
I  played  the  sucker. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

So  you  did.  The  rule  for  elevator  boys  is 
still  somewhat  in  the  air,  because  so  few  of 
these  bum  hotels  over  here  have  elevators,  but 
you  can  sort  of  reason  the  thing  out  if  you  put 
your  mind  on  it.  When  you  get  on  a  street  car 
in  Germany,  what  tip  do  you  give  the  con 
ductor? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Five  pfennigs. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Naturally.  That's  the  tip  fixed  by  custom. 
You  may  almost  say  it's  the  unwritten  law.  If 
you  gave  the  conductor  more,  he  would  hand 
you  change.  Well,  how  I  reason  it  out  is  'this 
way:  If  five  pfennigs  is  enough  for  a  car  con 
ductor,  who  may  carry  you  three  miles,  why 
shouldn't  it  be  enough  for  the  elevator  boy,  who 
may  carry  you  only  three  stories? 


120  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
It  seems  fair,  certainly. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

And  it  is  fair.  So  all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
keep  account  of  the  number  of  times  you  go 
up  and  down  in  the  elevator,  and  then  give  the 
elevator  boy  five  pfennigs  for  each  trip.  Say 
you  come  down  in  the  morning,  go  up  in  the 
evening,  and  average  one  other  round  trip  a 
day.  That  makes  twenty-eight  trips  a  week. 
Five  times  twenty-eight  is  one  mark  forty — and 
there  you  are. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  see.  By  the  way,  what  hotel  are  you  stop 
ping  at? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

The  Goldene  Esel. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
How  is  it? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Oh,  so-so.  Ask  for  oatmeal  at  breakfast 
and  they  send  to  the  livery  stable  for  a  peck 


Seeing  the  World  121 

of  oats  and  ask  you  please  to  be  so  kind  as 
to  show  them  how  to  make  it. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

My  hotel  is  even  worse.  Last  night  I  got 
into  such  a  sweat  under  the  big  German  feather 
bed  that  I  had  to  throw  it  off.  But  when  I 
asked  for  a  single  blanket  they  didn't  have  any, 
so  I  had  to  wrap  up  in  bath  towels. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Yes,  and  you  used  up  every  one  in  town. 
This  morning,  when  I  took  a  bath,  the  only 
towel  the  chambermaid  could  find  wasn't  big 
ger  than  a  wedding  invitation.  But  while  she 
was  hunting  around  I  dried  off,  so  no  harm 
was  done. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Well,  that's  what  a  man  gets  for  running 
around  in  such  one-horse  countries.  In  Leipzig 
they  sat  a  nigger  down  beside  me  at  the  table. 
In  Amsterdam  they  had  cheese  for  breakfast. 
In  Munich  the  head  waiter  had  never  heard  of 
buckwheat  cakes.  In  Mannheim  they  charged 
me  ten  pfennigs  extra  for  a  cake  of  soap. 


122  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

What  do  you  think  of  the  railroad  trains 
over  here? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Rotten.  That  compartment  system  is  all 
wrong.  If  nobody  comes  into  your  compart 
ment  it's  lonesome,  and  if  anybody  does  come 
in  it's  too  damn  sociable.  And  if  you  try  to 
stretch  out  and  get  some  sleep,  some  ruffian 
begins  singing  in  the  next  compartment,  or  the 
conductor  keeps  butting  in  and  jabbering  at  you. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

But  you  can  say  one  thing  for  the  German 
trains :  they  get  in  on  time. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

So  they  do,  but  no  wonder!  They  run  so 
slow  they  can't  help  it.  The  way  I  figure  it,  a 
German  engineer  must  have  a  devil  of  a  time 
holding  his  engine  in.  The  fact  is,  he  usually 
can't,  and  so  he  has  to  wait  outside  every  big 
town  until  the  schedule  catches  up  to  him.  They 
say  they  never  have  accidents,  but  is  it  any  more 
than  you  expect?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  mud 
turtle  having  an  accident? 


Seeing  the  World  123 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Scarcely.  As  you  say,  these  countries  are  far 
behind  the  times.  I  saw  a  fire  in  Cologne;  you 
would  have  laughed  your  head  off!  It  was 
in  a  feed  store  near  my  hotel,  and  I  got  there 
before  the  firemen.  When  they  came  at  last, 
in  their  tinpot  hats,  they  got  out  half  a  dozen 
big  squirts  and  rushed  into  the  building  with 
them.  Then,  when  it  was  out,  they  put  the 
squirts  back  into  their  little  express  wagon  and 
drove  off.  Not  a  line  of  hose  run  out,  not  an 
engine  puffing,  not  a  gong  heard,  not  a  soul 
letting  out  a  whoop !  It  was  more  like  a  Sun 
day-school  picnic  than  a  fire.  I  guess  if  these 
Dutch  ever  did  have  a  civilised  blaze,  it  would 
scare  them  to  death.  But  they  never  have  any. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Well,  what  can  you  expect?  A  country 
where  all  the  charwomen  are  men  and  all  the 
garbage  men  are  women! — 

For  the  moment  the  two  have  talked  each 
other  out,  and  so  they  lounge  upon  the  rail  in 
silence  and  gaze  out  over  the  valley.  Anon  the 
yumchewer  spits.  By  now  the  sun  has  reached 
the  skyline  to  the  westward  and  the  tops  of  the 


124  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

ice  mountains  are  in  gorgeous  conflagration. 
Scarlets  war  with  golden  oranges,  and  vermil 
ions  fade  into  palpitating  pinks.  Below,  in  the 
valley,  the  colours  begin  to  fade  slowly  to  a 
uniform  se  ash  ell  grey.  It  is  a  scene  of  inde 
scribable  loveliness;  the  wild  reds  of  hades 
splashed  riotously  upon  the  cold  whites  and  pale 
blues  of  heaven.  The  night  train  for  Venice,  a 
long  line  of  black  coaches,  is  entering  the  town. 
Somewhere  below,  apparently  in  the  barracks, 
a  sunset  gun  is  fired.  After  a  silence  of  per 
haps  two  or  three  minutes,  the  Americans 
gather  fresh  inspiration  and  resume  their  con 
versation. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
I  have  seen  worse  scenery. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Very  pretty. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
Yes,  sir;  it's  well  worth  the  money. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
But  the  Rockies  beat  it  all  hollow. 


Seeing  the  World  125 


THE  FIRST  MAN 

Oh,  of  course.  They  have  nothing  over 
here  that  we  can't  beat  to  a  whisper.  Just  con 
sider  the  Rhine,  for  instance.  The  Hudson 
makes  it  look  like  a  country  creek. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Yes,  you're  right.  Take  away  the  castles, 
and  not  even  a  German  would  give  a  hoot  for 
it.  It's  not  so  much  what  a  thing  is  over  here 
as  what  reputation  it's  got.  The  whole  thing 
is  a  matter  of  press-agenting. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

I  agree  with  you.  There's  the  "beautiful, 
blue  Danube."  To  me  it  looks  like  a  sewer.  If 
it's  blue,  then  I'm  green.  A  man  would  hesi 
tate  to  drown  himself  in  such  a  mud  puddle. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

But  you  hear  the  bands  playing  that  waltz 
all  your  life,  and  so  you  spend  your  good  money 
to  come  over  here  to  see  the  river.  And  when 
you  get  back  home  you  don't  want  to  admit 
that  you've  been  a  sucker,  so  you  start  touting 
it  from  hell  to  breakfast.  And  then  some 


126  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

other  fellow  comes  over  and  does  the  same, 
and  so  on  and  so  on. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Yes,  it's  all  a  matter  of  boosting.  Day  in 
and  day  out  you  hear  about  Westminster  Ab 
bey.  Every  English  book  mentions  it;  it's  in 
the  newspapers  almost  as  much  as  Jane  Ad- 
dams  or  Caruso.  Well,  one  day  you  pack  your 
grip,  put  on  your  hat  and  come  over  to  have  a 
look — and  what  do  you  find?  A  one-horse 
church  full  of  statues!  And  every  statue  cry 
ing  for  sapolio !  You  expect  to  see  something 
magnificent  and  enormous,  something  to  knock 
your  eye  out  and  send  you  down  for  the  count. 
What  you  do  see  is  a  second-rate  graveyard 
under  roof.  And  when  you  examine  into  it, 
you  find  that  two-thirds  of  the  graves  haven't 
even  got  dead  men  in  them!  Whenever  a 
prominent  Englishman  dies,  they  put  up  a 
statue  to  him  in  Westminster  Abbey — no  mat 
ter  where  he  happens  to  be  buried!  I  call 
that  clever  advertising.  That's  the  way  to  get 
the  crowd. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Yes,  these  foreigners  know  the  game.  They 
have  made  millions  out  of  it  in  Paris.  Every 


Seeing  the  World  127 

time  you  go  to  see  a  musical  comedy  at  home, 
the  second  act  is  laid  in  Paris,  and  you  see  a 
whole  stageful  of  girls  wriggling  around,  and 
a  lot  of  old  sports  having  the  time  of  their 
lives.  All  your  life  you  hear  that  Paris  is 
something  rich  and  racy,  something  that  makes 
New  York  look  like  Roanoke,  Virginia.  Well, 
you  fall  for  the  ballyho  and  come  over  to  have 
your  fling — and  then  you  find  that  Paris  is 
largely  bunk.  I  spent  a  whole  week  in  Paris, 
trying  to  find  something  really  awful.  I  hired 
one  of  those  Jew  guides  at  five  dollars  a  day 
and  told  him  to  go  the  limit.  I  said  to  him : 
"Don't  mind  me.  I  am  twenty-one  years  old. 
Let  me  have  the  genuine  goods."  But  the 
worst  he  could  show  me  wasn't  half  as  bad  as 
what  I  have  seen  in  Chicago.  Every  night  I 
would  say  to  that  Jew:  "Come  on,  now  Mr. 
Cohen ;  let's  get  away  from  these  tinhorn  shows. 
Lead  me  to  the  real  stuff. "  Well,  I  believe  the 
fellow  did  his  darndcst,  but  he  always  fell  down. 
I  almost  felt  sorry  for  him.  In  the  end,  when 
I  paid  him  off,  I  said  to  him:  "Save  up  your 
money,  my  boy,  and  come  over  to  the  States. 
Let  me  know  when  you  land.  I'll  show  you  the 
sights  for  nothing.  This  Baracca  Class  atmos 
phere  is  killing  you." 


128  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

And  yet  Paris  is  famous  all  over  the  world. 
No  American  ever  came  to  Europe  without 
dropping  off  there  to  have  a  look.  I  once  saw 
the  Bal  Tabarin  crowded  with  Sunday-school 
superintendents  returning  from  Jerusalem. 
And  when  the  sucker  gets  home  he  goes  around 
winking  and  hinting,  and  so  the  fake  grows. 
I  often  think  the  government  ought  to  take  a 
hand.  If  the  beer  is  inspected  and  guaranteed 
in  Germany,  why  shouldn't  the  shows  be  in 
spected  and  guaranteed  in  Paris? 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I  guess  the  trouble  is  that  the  Frenchmen 
themselves  never  go  to  their  own  shows.  They 
don't  know  what  is  going  on.  They  see  thou 
sands  of  Americans  starting  out  every  night 
from  the  Place  de  1'Opera  and  coming  back 
in  the  morning  all  boozed  up,  and  so  they  as 
sume  that  everything  is  up  to  the  mark.  You'll 
find  the  same  thing  in  Washington.  No  Wash- 
ingtonian  has  ever  Deen  up  to  the  top  of  the 
Washington  monument.  Once  the  elevator  in 
the  monument  was  out  of  commission  for  two 
weeks,  and  yet  Washington  knew  nothing  about 
it.  When  the  news  got  into  the  papers  at  last, 


Seeing  the  World  129 

it  came  from  Macon,  Georgia.  Some  honey- 
mooner  from  down  there  had  written  home 
about  it,  roasting  the  government. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  me  for  the  good  old  U.  S.  A. !  These 
Alps  are  all  right,  I  guess — but  I  can't  say  I 
like  the  coffee. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

And  it  takes  too  long  to  get  a  letter  from 
Jersey  City. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Yes,  that  reminds  me.  Just  before  I  started 
up  here  this  afternoon  my  wife  got  the  Ladies' 
Home  Journal  of  the  month  before  last.  It 
had  been  following  us  around  for  six  weeks, 
from  London  to  Paris,  to  Berlin,  to  Munich,  to 
Vienna,  to  a  dozen  other  places.  Now  she's 
fixed  for  the  night.  She  won't  let  up  until  she's 
read  every  word — the  advertisements  first. 
And  she'll  spend  all  day  to-morrow  sending 
off  for  things;  new  collar  hooks,  breakfast 
foods,  complexion  soaps  and  all  that  sort  of 
junk.  Are  you  married  yourself? 


130  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
No;  not  yet. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  then,  you  don't  know  how  it  is.  But 
I  guess  you  play  poker. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
Oh,  to  be  sure. 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Well,  let's  go  down  into  the  town  and  hunt 
up  some  quiet  barroom  and  have  a  civilised 
evening.  This  scenery  gives  me  the  creeps. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

I'm  with  you.  But  where  are  we  going  to 
get  any  chips? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Don't  worry.  I  carry  a  set  with  me.  I  made 
my  wife  put  it  in  the  bottom  of  my  trunk,  along 
with  a  bottle  of  real  whiskey  and  a  couple  of 
porous  plasters.  A  man  can't  be  too  careful 
when  he's  away  from  home — 


Seeing  the  World  131 

They  start  along  the  terrace  toward  the  sta 
tion  of  the  funicular  railway.  The  sun  has 
now  disappeared  behind  the  great  barrier  of 
ice  and  the  colours  of  the  scene  are  fast  soften 
ing.  All  the  scarlets  and  'vermilions  are  gone; 
a  luminous  pink  bathes  the  whole  picture  in  its 
fairy  light.  The  night  train  for  Venice,  leaving 
the  town,  appears  as  a  long  string  of  blinking 
lights.  A  chill  breeze  comes  from  the  Alpine 
•vastness  to  westward.  The  deep  silence  of  an 
Alpine  night  settles  down.  The  two  Americans 
continue  their  talk  until  they  are  out  of  hearing. 
The  breeze  interrupts  and  obfuscates  their 
words,  but  now  and  then  half  a  sentence  comes 
clearly. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 

Have  you  seen  any  American  papers  lately? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

Nothing  but  the  Paris  Herald — if  you  call 
that  a  paper. 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
How  are  the  Giants  making  out? 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

.  .  .  bad  as  usual  .  .  .  rotten  .  .  .  shake 
up  ... 


182  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
.   .   .  John  McGraw  .    .    . 

THE  FIRST  MAN 

.     .    ,.,  homesick    .     .     .    give   five  dollars 
for  ... 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
:.:  .   .  whole  continent  without  a  single  .   .   ., 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
.  .  .  glad  to  get  back  .   .   .  damn  tired  .  .  . 

THE  SECOND  MAN 
a  .  .  damn  .  .  .  ! 

THE  FIRST  MAN 
.  .  .  damn  ...   I 


V1I.-FROM  THE  MEM 
OIRS  OF  THE  DEVIL 


VII— From  the  Memoirs  of  the 
Devil 


January  6. 

AND  yet,  and  yet — is  not  all  this  con 
tumely  a  part  of  my  punishment?    To 
be  reviled  by  the  righteous  as  the  au 
thor  of  all  evil;  worse  still,  to  be  ven 
erated  by  the  wicked  as  the  accomplice,  nay,  the 
instigator,  of  their  sins!     A  harsh,  hard  fate! 
But  should  I  not  rejoice  that  I  have  been  vouch 
safed  the  strength  to  bear  it,  that  the  ultimate 
mercy  is  mine?     Should  I  not  be  full  of  calm, 
deep  delight  that  I  am  blessed  with  the  resig 
nation  of  the  Psalmist  (II  Samuel  XV,  26),  the 
sublime  grace  of  the  pious  Hezekiah  (II  Kings 
XX,   19)  ?     If  Hezekiah  could  bear  the  cruel 
visitation    of   his   erring   upon   his   sons,    why 
should  I,  poor  worm  that  I  am,  repine? 

January  8. 

All  afternoon  I  watched  the  damned  filing 
in.     With  what  horror  that  spectacle  must  fill 

135 


136  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

every  right-thinking  man!  Sometimes  I  think 
that  the  worst  of  all  penalties  of  sin  is  this: 
that  the  sinful  actually  seem  to  be  glad  of  their 
sins  (Psalms  X,  4).  I  looked  long  and  ear 
nestly  into  that  endless  procession  of  faces.  In 
not  one  of  them  did  I  see  any  sign  of  sorrow 
or  repentance.  They  marched  in  defiantly, 
almost  proudly.  Ever  and  anon  I  heard  a 
snicker,  sometimes  a  downright  laugh :  there 
was  a  coarse  buffoonery  in  the  ranks.  I  turned 
aside  at  last,  unable  to  bear  it  longer.  Here 
they  will  learn  what  their  laughter  is  worth! 
(Eccl.  II,  2.) 

Among  them  I  marked  a  female,  young  and 
fair.  How  true  the  words  of  Solomon: 
"Favour  is  deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain!" 
(Proverbs  XXXI,  30.)  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  put  down  upon  these  pages  the  whole 
record  of  that  wicked  creature's  shameless  life. 
Truly  it  has  been  said  that  "the  lips  of  a  strange 
woman  drop  as  a  honeycomb,  and  her  mouth  is 
smoother  than  oil."  (Proverbs  V,  3.)  One 
hears  of  such  careers  of  evil-doing  and  can 
scarcely  credit  them.  Can  it  be  that  the  chil 
dren  of  men  are  so  deaf  to  all  the  warnings  giv 
en  them,  so  blind  to  the  vast  certainty  of  their 
punishment,  so  ardent  in  seeking  temptation, 
so  lacking  in  holy  fire  to  resist  it?  Such  thoughts 


From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Devil   137 

fill  me  with  the  utmost  distress.  Is  not  the  com 
mand  to  a  moral  life  plain  enough?  Are  we 
not  told  to  "live  soberly,  righteously,  and 
godly?"  (Titus  II,  n.)  Are  we  not  solemnly 
warned  to  avoid  the  invitation  of  evil?  (Prov 
erbs  I,  10.) 

January  9. 

I  have  had  that  strange  woman  before  me 
and  heard  her  miserable  story.  It  is  as  I 
thought.  The  child  of  a  poor  but  pious  mother, 
(a  widow  with  six  children),  she  had  every  ad 
vantage  of  a  virtuous,  consecrated  home.  The 
mother,  earning  $6  a  week,  gave  25  cents  of 
it  to  foreign  missions.  The  daughter,  at  the 
tender  age  of  4,  was  already  a  regular  attend 
ant  at  Sabbath-school.  The  good  people  of 
the  church  took  a  Christian  interest  in  the  fam 
ily,  and  one  of  them,  a  gentleman  of  consider 
able  wealth,  and  an  earnest,  diligent  worker  for 
righteousness,  made  it  his  special  care  to  be 
friend  the  girl.  He  took  her  into  his  office, 
treating  her  almost  as  one  of  his  own  daughters. 
She  served  him  in  the  capacity  of  stenographer, 
receiving  therefor  the  wage  of  $7.00  a  week, 
a  godsend  to  that  lowly  household.  How  truly, 
indeed,  it  has  been  said:  "Verily,  there  is  a 


138  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

reward  for  the  righteous."      (Psalms  LVIII, 

no 

And  now  behold  how  powerful  are  the 
snares  of  evil.  (Genesis  VI,  12.)  There  was 
that  devout  and  saintly  man,  ripe  in  good  works, 
a  deacon  and  pillar  in  the  church,  a  steadfast 
friend  to  the  needy  and  erring,  a  stalwart  sup 
porter  of  his  pastor  in  all  forward-looking  en 
terprises,  a  tower  of  strength  for  righteousness 
in  his  community,  the  father  of  four  daughters. 
And  there  was  that  shameless  creature,  that 
evil  woman,  that  sinister  temptress.  With  the 
noisome  details  I  do  not  concern  myself.  Suf 
fice  it  to  say  that  the  vile  arts  of  the  hussy  pre 
vailed  over  that  noble  and  upright  man — that 
she  enticed  him,  by  adroit  appeals  to  his  sym 
pathy,  into  taking  her  upon  automobile  rides, 
into  dining  with  her  clandestinely  in  the  private 
rooms  of  dubious  hotels,  and  finally  into  ac 
companying  her  upon  a  despicable,  adulterous 
visit  to  Atlantic  City.  And  then,  seeking  to 
throw  upon  him  the  blame  for  what  she  chose 
to  call  her  "wrong,"  she  held  him  up  to  public 
disgrace  and  worked  her  own  inexorable  dam 
nation  by  taking  her  miserable  life.  Well  hath 
the  Preacher  warned  us  against  the  woman 
whose  "heart  is  snares  and  nets,  and  her  hands 
as  bands."  (Eccl.  VII,  26.)  Well  do  we 


From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Devil   139 

know  the  wreck  and  ruin  that  such  agents  of 
destruction  can  work  upon  the  innocent  and 
trusting.  (Revelations  XXI,  8;  I  Corinthians 
VI,  18;  Job  XXXI,  12;  Hosea  IV,  n:  Prov 
erbs  VI,  26.) 

January  n. 

We  have  resumed  our  evening  services — an 
hour  of  quiet  communion  in  the  failing  light. 
The  attendance,  alas,  is  not  as  gratifying  as  it 
might  be,  but  the  brethren  who  gather  are 
filled  with  holy  zeal.  It  is  inspiring  to  hear 
their  eloquent  confessions  of  guilt  and  wrong 
doing,  their  trembling  protestations  of  contri 
tion.  Several  of  them  are  of  long  experience 
and  considerable  proficiency  in  public  speaking. 
One  was  formerly  a  major  in  the  Salvation 
Army.  Another  spent  twenty  years  in  the 
Dunkard  ministry,  finally  retiring  to  devote 
himself  to  lecturing  on  the  New  Thought.  A 
third  was  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary  in  Iowa.  A 
fourth  was  the  first  man  to  lift  his  voice  for 
sex  hygiene  west  of  the  Mississippi  river. 

All  these  men  eventually  succumbed  to  temp 
tation,  and  hence  they  are  here,  but  I  think 
that  no  one  who  has  ever  glimpsed  their  secret 
and  inmost  souls  (as  I  have  during  our  hours 
of  humble  heart-searching  together)  will  fail 


140  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

to  testify  to  their  inherent  purity  of  character. 
After  all,  it  is  not  what  we  do  but  what  we  have 
in  our  hearts  that  reveals  our  true  worth. 
(Joshua  XXIV,  14.)  As  David  so  beauti 
fully  puts  it,  it  is  "the  imagination  of  the 
thoughts."  (I  Chronicles  XXIII,  9.)  I  love 
and  trust  these  brethren.  They  are  true  and 
earnest  Christians.  They  loathe  the  tempta 
tion  to  which  they  succumbed,  and  deplore  the 
weakness  that  made  them  yield.  How  the 
memory  at  once  turns  to  that  lovely  passage  in 
the  Book  of  Job:  "Wherefore  I  abhor  my 
self,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes."  Where  is 
there  a  more  exquisite  thought  in  all  Holy 
Writ? 

January  14. 

I  have  had  that  scarlet  woman  before  me, 
and  invited  her  to  join  us  in  our  inspiring  even 
ing  gatherings.  For  reply  she  mocked  me. 
Thus  Paul  was  mocked  by  the  Athenians.  Thus 
the  children  of  Bethel  mocked  Elisha  the 
Prophet  (II  Kings  II,  23).  Thus  the  sinful 
show  their  contempt,  not  only  for  righteousness 
itself,  but  also  for  its  humblest  agents  and  ad 
vocates.  Nevertheless,  I  held  my  temper  be 
fore  her.  I  indulged  in  no  vain  and  worldly 
recriminations.  When  she  launched  into  her 


From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Devil   141 

profane  and  disgraceful  tirade  against  that 
good  and  faithful  brother,  her  benefactor  and 
victim,  I  held  my  peace.  When  she  accused 
him  of  foully  destroying  her,  I  returned  her  no 
harsh  words.  Instead,  I  merely  read  aloud  to 
her  those  inspiring  words  from  Revelation  XIV, 
10 :  "And  the  evil-doer  shall  be  tormented  with 
fire  and  brimstone  in  the  presence  of  the  holy 
angels."  And  then  I  smiled  upon  her  and  bade 
her  begone.  Who  am  I,  that  I  should  hold 
myself  above  the  most  miserable  of  sinners? 

January  18. 

Again  that  immoral  woman.  I  had  sent  her 
a  few  Presbyterian  tracts:  "The  Way  to  Re 
demption,"  "The  Story  of  a  Missionary  in 
Polynesia,"  "The  White  Slave," — inspiring 
and  consecrated  writings,  all  of  them — com 
forting  to  me  in  many  a  bitter  hour.  When  she 
came  in  I  thought  it  was  to  ask  me  to  pray  with 
her.  (II  Chronicles  VII,  14.)  But  her  heart, 
it  appears,  is  still  shut  to  the  words  of  salvation. 
She  renewed  her  unseemly  denunciation  of  her 
benefactor,  and  sought  to  overcome  me  with 
her  weeping.  I  found  myself  strangely  drawn 
toward  her — almost  pitying  her.  She  ap 
proached  me,  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  her 
red  lips  parted,  her  hair  flowing  about  her 


142  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

shoulders.  I  felt  myself  drawn  to  her.  I  knew 
and  understood  the  temptation  of  that  great 
and  good  man.  But  by  a  powerful  effort  of  the 
will — or,  should  I  say,  by  a  sudden  access  of 
grace? — I  recovered  and  pushed  her  from  me. 
And  then,  closing  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  image 
of  her,  I  pronounced  those  solemn  and  awful 
words:  "Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord!" 
The  effect  was  immediate :  she  emitted  a  moan 
and  departed.  I  had  resisted  her  abhorrent 
blandishments.  (Proverbs  I,  10.) 

January  25. 

I  love  the  Book  of  Job.  Where  else  in  the 
Scriptures  is  there  a  more  striking  picture  of 
the  fate  that  overtakes  those  who  yield  to  sin? 
"They  meet  with  darkness  in  the  day-time,  and 
grope  in  the  noon-day  as  in  the  night"  (Job  V, 
14).  And  further  on:  "They  grope  in  the 
dark  without  light,  and  he  maketh  them  to 
stagger  like  a  drunken  man"  (Job  XII,  25).  I 
read  these  beautiful  passages  over  and  over 
again.  They  comfort  me. 

January  28. 

That  shameless  person  once  more.  She 
sends  back  the  tracts  I  gave  her — torn  in 
halves. 


From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Devil   143 

February  3. 

That  American  brother,  the  former  Dunk- 
ard,  thrilled  us  with  his  eloquence  at  to-night's 
meeting.  In  all  my  days  I  have  heard  no  more 
affecting  plea  for  right  living.  In  words  that 
almost  seemed  to  be  of  fire  he  set  forth  the 
duty  of  all  of  us  to  combat  sin  wherever  we 
find  it,  and  to  scourge  the  sinner  until  he  fore 
goes  his  folly. 

"It  is  not  sufficient,"  he  said,  "that  we  keep 
our  own  hearts  pure:  we  must  also  purge  the 
heart  of  our  brother.  And  if  he  resist  us,  let 
no  false  sympathy  for  him  stay  our  hands.  We 
are  charged  with  the  care  and  oversight  of  his 
soul.  He  is  in  our  keeping.  Let  us  seek  at 
first  to  save  him  with  gentleness,  but  if  he 
draws  back,  let  us  unsheath  the  sword!  We 
must  be  deaf  to  his  protests.  We  must  not  be 
deceived  by  his  casuistries.  If  he  clings  to  his 
sinning,  he  must  perish." 

Cries  of  "Amen  I"  arose  spontaneously  from 
the  little  band  of  consecrated  workers.  I  have 
never  heard  a  more  triumphant  call  to  that 
Service  which  is  the  very  heart's  blood  of  right 
eousness.  Who  could  listen  to  it,  and  then 
stay  his  hand? 

I  looked  for  that  scarlet  creature.  She  was 
not  there. 


144  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

February  7. 

I  have  seen  her  again.  She  came,  I  thought, 
in  all  humility.  I  received  her  gently,  quoting 
aloud  the  beautiful  words  of  Paul  in  Colossians 
III,  12:  "Put  on  therefore,  holy  and  beloved, 
bowels  of  mercies,  kindness,  humbleness  of 
mind,  meekness,  long-suffering."  And  then  I 
addressed  her  in  calm,  encouraging  tones: 
"Are  you  ready,  woman,  to  put  away  your 
evil-doing,  and  forswear  your  carnalities  for- 
evermore?  Have  you  repented  of  your  black 
and  terrible  sin?  Do  you  ask  for  mercy? 
Have  you  come  in  sackcloth  and  ashes?" 

The  effect,  alas,  was  not  what  I  planned. 
Instead  of  yielding  to  my  entreaty  and  casting 
herself  down  for  forgiveness,  she  yielded  to  her 
pride  and  mocked  me!  And  then,  her  heart 
still  full  of  the  evils  of  the  flesh,  she  tried  to 
tempt  me!  She  approached  me.  She  lifted  up 
her  face  to  mine.  She  smiled  at  me  with  abom 
inable  suggestiveness.  She  touched  me  with 
her  garment.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 
...  I  felt  my  resolution  going  from  me.  I 
was  as  one  stricken  with  the  palsy.  My  tongue 
clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  My  hands 
trembled.  I  tried  to  push  her  from  me  and 
could  not.  .  .  . 


From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Devil    145 

February  10. 

In  all  humility  of  spirit  I  set  it  down.  The 
words  burn  the  paper;  the  fact  haunts  me  like 
an  evil  dream.  I  yielded  to  that  soulless  and 
abominable  creature.  /  kissed  her.  .  .  .  And 
then  she  laughed,  making  a  mock  of  me  in  my 
weakness,  burning  me  with  the  hot  iron  of  her 
scorn,  piercing  my  heart  with  the  daggers  of 
her  reviling.  Laughed,  and  slapped  my  face! 
Laughed,  and  spat  in  my  eye  1  Laughed,  and 
called  me  a  hypocrite!  .  .  . 

They  have  taken  her  away.  Let  her  taste  the 
fire!  Let  her  sin  receive  its  meet  and  inexor 
able  punishment!  Let  righteousness  prevail! 
Let  her  go  with  uthe  fearful  and  unbelieving, 
the  abominable  and  murderers,  the  white-slave 
traders  and  sorcerers.'*  Off  with  her  to  that 
lake  "which  burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone!" 
(Revelation  XXI,  8.)  ... 

Go,  Jezebel!  Go,  Athaliah!  Go,  Painted 
One!  Thy  sins  have  found  thee  out. 

February  1 1. 

I  spoke  myself  at  to-night's  meeting — simple 
words,  but  I  think  their  message  was  not  lost. 
We  must  wage  forever  the  good  fight.  We 
must  rout  the  army  of  sin  from  its  for 
tresses.  .  . 


VIII.-LITANIES  FOR 
THE  OVERLOOKED 


VIII —Litanies  for  the 
Overlooked 


I. — For  Americanos 

FROM  scented  hotel  soap,  and  from  the 
Boy  Scouts;  from  home  cooking,  and 
from  pianos  with  mandolin  attachments; 
from  prohibition,  and  from  Odd  Fellows' 
funerals;  from  Key  West  cigars,  and  from  cold 
dinner  plates;  from  transcendentalism,  and 
from  the  New  Freedom;  from  fat  women 
in  straight-front  corsets,  and  from  Phila 
delphia  cream  cheese;  from  The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner,  and  from  the  International 
Sunday-school  Lessons;  from  rubber  heels,  and 
from  the  college  spirit;  from  sulphate  of  qui 
nine,  and  from  Boston  baked  beans;  from  chiv 
alry,  and  from  laparotomy;  from  the  dithy 
rambs  of  Herbert  Kaufman,  and  from  sport  in 
all  its  hideous  forms;  from  women  with  pointed 
fingernails,  and  from  men  with  messianic  delu 
sions;  from  the  retailers  of  smutty  anecdotes 
about  the  Jews,  and  from  the  Lake  Mohonk 

149 


150  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Conference;  from  Congressmen,  vice  crusaders, 
and  the  heresies  of  Henry  Van  Dyke;  from 
jokes  in  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  and  from 
the  Revised  Statutes  of  the  United  States;  from 
Colonial  Dames,  and  from  men  who  boast  that 
they  take  cold  shower-baths  every  morning; 
from  the  Drama  League,  and  from  malicious 
animal  magnetism;  from  ham  and  eggs,  and 
from  the  Weltanschauung  of  Kansas;  from  the 
theory  that  a  dark  cigar  is  always  a  strong  one, 
and  from  the  theory  that  a  horse-hair  put  into 
a  bottle  of  water  will  turn  into  a  snake;  from 
campaigns  against  profanity,  and  from  the  Pen 
tateuch  ;  from  anti-vivisection,  and  from  women 
who  do  not  smoke;  from  wine-openers,  and 
from  Methodists;  from  Armageddon,  and 
from  the  belief  that  a  bloodhound  never  makes 
a  mistake;  from  sataerdotal  moving-pictures, 
and  from  virtuous  chorus  girls;  from  bunga 
lows,  and  from  cornets  in  B  flat;  from  canned 
soups,  and  from  women  who  leave  everything 
to  one's  honor;  from  detachable  cuffs,  and  from 
Lohengrin;  from  unwilling  motherhood,  and 
from  canary  birds — good  Lord,  deliver  us! 

//. — For  Hypochondriacs 

From   adenoids,    and   from  chronic  desqua- 
mative  nephritis; from  Shiga's  bacillus, and  from 


Litanies  for  the  Overlooked       151 

hysterotrachelorrhaphy ;  from  mitral  insuffi 
ciency,  and  from  Cheyne-Stokes  breathing; 
from  the  streptococcus  pyogenes,  and  from 
splanchnoptosis;  from  warts,  wens,  and  the 
spirochate  palllda;  from  exophthalmic  goitre, 
and  from  septicopyemia;  from  poisoning  by 
sewer-gas,  and  from  the  bacillus  coli  communis; 
from  anthrax,  and  from  von  Recklinghausen's 
disease;  from  recurrent  paralysis  of  the  laryn- 
geal  nerve,  and  from  pityriasis  versicolor;  from 
mania-a-potu,  and  from  nephrorrhaphy;  from 
the  leptothrix,  and  from  colds  in  the  head;  from 
tape-worms,  from  jiggers  and  from  scurvy; 
from  endocarditis,  and  from  Romberg's  mas 
ticatory  spasm;  from  hypertrophic  stenosis  of 
the  pylorus,  and  from  fits;  from  the  bacillus 
botulinus,  and  from  salaam  convulsions;  from 
cerebral  monoplegia,  and  from  morphinism; 
from  anaphylaxis,and  from  neuralgia  in  the  eye 
ball;  from  dropsy,  and  from  dum-dum  fever; 
from  autumnal  catarrh,  from  coryza  vasomo- 
toria,  from  idiosyncratic  coryza,  from  pollen 
catarrh,  from  rhinitis  sympathetica,  from  rose 
cold,  from  catarrhus  <rstivus,  from  periodic 
hyperesthetic  rhinitis,  from  heuasthma,  from 
catarrhe  a"  etc  and  from  hay-fever — good 
Lord,  deliver  us! 


152  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

III. — For  Music  Lovers 

From  all  piano-players  save  Paderewski, 
Godowski  and  Mark  Hambourg;  and  from  the 
William  Tell  and  1812  overtures;  and  from 
bad  imitations  of  Victor  Herbert  by  Victor 
Herbert;  and  from  persons  who  express  aston 
ishment  that  Dr.  Karl  Muck,  being  a  German, 
is  devoid  of  all  bulge,  corporation,  paunch  or 
leap-tick;  and  from  the  saxophone,  the  piccolo, 
the  cornet  and  the  bagpipes;  and  from  the 
theory  that  America  has  no  folk-music;  and 
from  all  symphonic  poems  by  English  compos 
ers;  and  from  the  tall,  willing,  horse-chested, 
ham-handed,  quasi-gifted  ladies  who  stagger 
to  their  legs  in  gloomy  drawing  rooms  after 
bad  dinners  and  poison  the  air  with  Tosti's 
Good-bye;  and  from  the  low  prehensile,  godless 
laryngologists  who  prostitute  their  art  to  the 
saving  of  tenors  who  are  happily  threatened 
with  loss  of  voice;  and  from  clarinet  cadenzas 
more  than  two  inches  in  length;  and  from  the 
first  two  acts  of  //  Trovatore;  and  from  such 
fluffy,  xanthous  whiskers  as  Lohengrins  wear; 
and  from  sentimental  old  maids  who  sink  into 
senility  lamenting  that  Brahms  never  wrote  an 
opera;  and  from  programme  music,  with  or 
without  notes;  and  from  Swiss  bell-ringers,  Vin- 


Litanies  for  the  Overlooked       153 

cent  D'Indy,  the  Paris  Opera,  and  Elgar's 
Salut  d* Amour;  and  from  the  doctrine  that 
Massenet  was  a  greater  composer  than  Dvorak; 
and  from  Italian  bands  and  Schnellpostdoppel- 
schraubendampfcr  orchestras;  and  from  Raff's 
Cavatina  and  all  of  Tschaikowsky  except  ten 
per  centum;  and  from  prima  donna  conductors 
who  change  their  programmes  without  notice, 
and  so  get  all  the  musical  critics  into  a  sweat; 
and  from  the  abandoned  hussies  who  sue  tenors 
for  breach  of  promise;  and  from  all  alleged 
musicians  who  do  not  shrivel  to  the  size  of  five- 
cent  cigars  whenever  they  think  of  old  Josef 
Haydn — good  Lord,  deliver  us! 

IV . — For  Hangmen 

From  clients  who  delay  the  exercises  by 
pausing  to  make  long  and  irrelevant  speeches 
from  the  scaffold,  or  to  sing  depressing  Metho 
dist  hymns;  and  from  medical  examiners  who 
forget  their  stethoscopes,  and  clamor  for  waits 
while  messenger  boys  are  sent  for  them;  and 
from  official  witnesses  who  faint  at  the  last 
minute,  and  have  to  be  hauled  out  by  the  deputy 
sheriffs;  and  from  undertakers  who  keep  look 
ing  at  their  watches  and  hinting  obscenely  that 
they  have  other  engagements  at  10:30;  and 


154  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

from  spiritual  advisers  who  crowd  up  at  the 
last  minute  and  fall  through  the  trap  with  the 
condemned — good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

V. — For  Magazine  Editors 

From  Old  Subscribers  who  write  in  to  say 
that  the  current  number  is  the  worst  magazine 
printed  since  the  days  of  the  New  York  Galaxy; 
and  from  elderly  poetesses  who  have  read  all 
the  popular  text-books  of  sex  hygiene,  and  be 
lieve  all  the  bosh  in  them  about  the  white  slave 
trade,  and  so  suspect  the  editor,  and  even  the 
publisher,  of  sinister  designs;  and  from  stories 
in  which  a  rising  young  district  attorney  gets 
the  dead  wood  upon  a  burly  political  boss 
named  Terrence  O'Flaherty,  and  then  falls 
in  love  with  Mignon,  his  daughter,  and  has  to 
let  him  go;  and  from  stories  in  which  a  married 
lady,  just  about  to  sail  for  Capri  with  her  hus 
band's  old  Corpsbruder,  is  dissuaded  from  her 
purpose  by  the  news  that  her  husband  has  lost 
$700,000  in  Wall  Street  and  is  on  his  way  home 
to  weep  on  her  shoulder;  and  from  one-act 
plays  in  which  young  Cornelius  Van  Suydam 
comes  home  from  The  Club  at  11:55  P.  M. 
on  Christmas  Eve,  dismisses  Dodson,  his  Man, 
with  the  compliments  of  the  season,  and  draws 


Litanies  for  the  Overlooked       155 

up  his  chair  before  the  open  fire  to  dream  of 
his  girl,  thus  preparing  the  way  for  the  entrance 
of  Maxwell,  the  starving  burglar,  and  for  the 
scene  in  which  Maxwell's  little  daughter,  Fifi, 
following  him  up  the  fire-escape,  pleads  with 
him  to  give  up  his  evil  courses;  and  from  poems 
about  war  in  which  it  is  argued  that  thousands 
of  young  men  are  always  killed,  and  that  their 
mothers  regret  to  hear  of  it;  and  from  essays 
of  a  sweet  and  whimsical  character,  in  which 
the  author  refers  to  himself  as  "we,"  and  ends 
by  quoting  Bergson,  Washington  Irving  or 
Agnes  Repplier;  and  from  epigrams  based  on 
puns,  good  or  bad;  and  from  stories  begin 
ning,  "It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year  1950"; 
and  from  stories  embodying  quotations  from 
Omar  Khayyam,  and  full  of  a  mellow  pessi 
mism;  and  from  stories  in  which  the  gay  noc 
turnal  life  of  the  Latin  Quarter  is  described  by 
an  author  living  in  Dubuque,  Iowa;  and  from 
stories  of  thought  transference,  mental  healing 
and  haunted  houses;  and  from  newspaper 
stories  in  which  a  cub  reporter  solves  the  mys 
tery  of  the  Snodgrass  murder  and  is  promoted 
to  dramatic  critic  on  the  field,  or  in  which  a  city 
editor  who  smokes  a  corn-cob  pipe  falls  in  love 
with  a  sob-sister;  and  from  stories  about  trained 
nurses,  young  dramatists,  baseball  players, 


156  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

heroic  locomotive  engineers,  settlement  work 
ers,  clergymen,  yeggmen,  cowboys,  Italians, 
employes  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  and 
great  detectives;  and  from  stories  in  which  the 
dissolute  son  of  a  department  store  owner  tries 
to  seduce  a  working  girl  in  his  father's  employ 
and  then  goes  on  the  water  wagon  and  marries 
her  as  a  tribute  to  her  virtue;  and  from  stories 
in  which  the  members  of  a  yachting  party  are 
wrecked  on  a  desert  island  in  the  South  Pacific, 
and  the  niece  of  the  owner  of  the  yacht  falls 
in  love  with  the  bo'sun;  and  from  manuscripts 
accompanied  by  documents  certifying  that  the 
incidents  and  people  described  are  real,  though 
cleverly  disguised;  and  from  authors  who  send 
in  saucy  notes  when  their  offerings  are  returned 
with  insincere  thanks;  and  from  lady  authors 
who  appear  with  satirical  letters  of  introduc 
tion  from  the  low,  raffish  rogues  who  edit  rival 
magazines — good  Lord,  deliver  us  1 


1X.-ASEPSIS 


IX.— Asepsis.     A  Deduction  in 
Scherzo  Form 


CHARACTERS: 

A  CLERGYMAN 
A  BRIDE 

FOUR  BRIDESMAIDS 
A  BRIDEGROOM 
A  BEST  MAN 
THE  USUAL  CROWD 

PLACE — The  surgical  amphitheatre  in  a 
hospital. 

TIME — Noon  of  a  fair  day. 

Seats  rising  in  curved  tiers.     The  operating 

pit  paved  with  white  tiles.     The  usual  operating 

table  has  been  pushed  to  one  side,  and  in  place 

of  it  there  is  a  small  glass-topped  bedside  table. 

159 


160  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

On  it,  a  large  roll  of  aseptic  cotton,  several  pads 
of  gauze,  a  basin  of  bichloride,  a  pair  of  clini 
cal  thermometers  in  a  little  glass  of  alcohol, 
a  dish  of  green  soap,  a  beaker  of  two  per  cent, 
carbolic  acid,  and  a  microscope.  In  one  corner 
stands  a  sterilizer,  steaming  pleasantly  like  a 
tea  kettle.  There  are  no  decorations — no  flow 
ers,  no  white  ribbons,  no  satin  cushions.  To 
the  left  a  door  leads  into  the  Anesthetic  Room. 
A  pungent  smell  of  ether,  nitrous  oxide,  iodine, 
chlorine,  wet  laundry  and  scorched  gauze. 
Temperature:  08.6  degrees  Fahr. 

THE  CLERGYMAN  is  discovered  standing  be 
hind  the  table  in  an  expectant  attitude.  He  is 
in  the  long  white  coat  of  a  surgeon,  with  his 
head  wrapped  in  white  gauze  and  a  gauze 
respirator  over  his  mouth.  His  chunkiness  sug 
gests  a  fat,  middle-aged  Episcopal  rector,  but 
it  is  impossible  to  see  either  his  face  or  his  vest 
ments.  He  wears  rubber  gloves  of  a  dirty 
orange  color,  evidently  much  used.  THE 
BRIDEGROOM  and  THE  BEST  MAN  have  just 
emerged  from  the  Anesthetic  Room  and  are 
standing  before  him.  Both  are  dressed  exactly 
as  he  is,  save  that  THE  BRIDEGROOM'S  rubber 
gloves  are  white.  The  benches  running  up  the 
amphitheatre  are  filed  with  spectators,  chiefly 


Asepsis  161 

women.     They  are  in  dingy  oilskins,  and  most 
of  them  also  wear  respirators. 

After  a  long  and  uneasy  pause  THE  BRIDE 
comes  in  from  the  Anesthetic  Room  on  the  arm 
of  her  FATHER,  with  THE  FOUR  BRIDESMAIDS 
following  by  twos.  She  is  dressed  in  what  ap 
pears  to  be  white  linen,  with  a  long  veil  of 
aseptic  gauze.  The  gauze  testifies  to  its  late 
and  careful  sterilization  by  yellowish  scorches. 
There  is  a  white  rubber  glove  upon  THE  BRIDE'S 
right  hand,  but  that  belonging  to  her  left  hand 
has  been  removed.  HER  FATHER  is  dressed 
like  THE  BEST  MAN.  THE  FOUR  BRIDESMAIDS 
are  in  the  garb  of  surgical  nurses,  with  their 
hair  completely  concealed  by  turbans  of  gauze. 
As  THE  BRIDE  takes  her  place  before  THE 
CLERGYMAN,  with  THE  BRIDEGROOM  at  her 
right,  there  is  a  faint,  snuffling  murmur  among 
the  spectators.  It  hushes  suddenly  as  THE 
CLERGYMAN  clears  his  throat. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(In  sonorous,  booming  tones,  somewhat  muf 
fled  by  his  respirator.)  Dearly  beloved,  we 
are  gathered  here  together  in  the  face  of  this 
company  to  join  together  this  man  and  this 
woman  in  holy  matrimony,  which  is  commended 


162  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

by  God  to  be  honorable  among  men,  and  there 
fore  is  not  to  be  entered  into  inadvisedly  or 
carelessly,  or  without  due  surgical  precautionst 
but  reverently,  cleanly,  sterilely,  soberly,  scien 
tifically,  and  with  the  nearest  practicable  ap 
proach  to  bacteriological  purity.  Into  this  laud 
able  and  non-infectious  state  these  two  persons 
present  come  now  to  be  joined  and  quarantined. 
If  any  man  can  show  just  cause,  either  clinically 
or  microscopically,  why  they  may  not  be  safely 
sutured  together,  let  him  now  come  forward 
with  his  charts,  slides  and  cultures,  or  else  here 
after  forever  hold  his  peace. 

(Several  spectators  shuffle  their  feet,  and  an 
old  maid  giggles,  but  no  one  comes  forward.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(To  THE  BRIDE  and  BRIDEGROOM)  :  I  re 
quire  and  charge  both  of  you,  as  ye  will  answer 
in  the  dreadful  hour  of  autopsy,  when  the 
secrets  of  all  lives  shall  be  disclosed,  that  if 
either  of  you  know  of  any  lesion,  infection,  mal 
aise,  congenital  defect,  hereditary  taint  or  other 
impediment,  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined 
together  in  eugenic  matrimony,  ye  do  now  con 
fess  it.  For  be  ye  well  assured  that  if  any 
persons  are  joined  together  otherwise  than  in 


Asepsis 


a  state  of  absolute  chemical  and  bacteriological 
innocence,  their  marriage  will  be  septic,  unhy 
gienic,  pathogenic  and  toxic,  and  eugenically 
null  and  void. 

(THE  BRIDEGROOM  hands  over  a  long  enve 
lope,  from  which  THE  CLERGYMAN  extracts  a 
paper  bearing  a  large  red  seal.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Reading)  :  We,  and  each  of  us,  having 
subjected  the  bearer,  John  Doe,  to  a  rigid  clini 
cal  and  laboratory  examination,  in  accordance 
with  Form  8-3  of  the  United  States  Public 
Health  Service,  do  hereby  certify  that,  to  the 
best  of  our  knowledge  and  belief,  he  is  free 
from  all  disease,  taint,  defect,  deformity  or 
hereditary  blemish,  saving  as  noted  herein. 
Temperature  per  ora,  98.6.  Pulse,  76,  strong. 
Respiration,  28.5.  Wasscrmann,  —  2.  Hb., 
114%.  Phthalein,  ist.  hr.,  46%;  2ndhr.,  21%. 
W.  B.  C,  8,925.  Free  gastric  HC1,  11.5%. 
No  stasis.  No  lactic  acid.  Blood  pressure, 
122/77.  No  albuminuria.  No  glycosuria. 
Lumbar  puncture:  clear  fluid,  normal  pressure. 

Defects  Noted,  i.  Left  heel  jerk  feeble. 
2.  Caries  in  five  molars.  3.  Slight  acne  ros- 
acea.  4.  Slight  inequality  of  curvature  in  meri- 


164  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

dians  of  right  cornea.  5.  Nicotine  stain  on 
right  forefinger,  extending  to  middle  of  second 
phalanx.  (Signed) 

SIGISMUND  KRAUS,  M.D. 

WM.  T.  ROBERTSON,  M.D. 

JAMES  SIMPSON,  M.D. 

Subscribed  and  sworn  to  before  me,  a  Notary 
Public  for  the  Borough  of  Manhattan,  City  of 
New  York,  State  of  New  York. 

(Seal)  ABRAHAM  LECHETITSKY. 

So  much  for  the  reading  of  the  minutes.  (  To 
THE  BRIDE)  :  Now  for  yours,  my  dear. 

(THE  BRIDE  hands  up  a  similar  envelope, 
from  which  THE  CLERGYMAN  extracts  a  simi 
lar  document.  But  instead  of  reading  it  aloud, 
he  delicately  runs  his  eye  through  it  in  silence.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(  The  reading  finished)  Very  good.  Very 
creditable.  You  must  see  some  good  oculist 
about  your  astigmatism,  my  dear.  Surely  you 
want  to  avoid  glasses.  Come  to  my  study  on 
your  return  and  I'll  give  you  the  name  of  a 
trustworthy  man.  And  now  let  us  proceed  with 
the  ceremony  of  marriage.  (To  THE  BRIDE 
GROOM)  :  John,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to 


Asepsis  165 

be  thy  wedded  wife,  to  live  together  in  the  holy 
state  of  eugenic  matrimony?  Wilt  thou  love 
her,  comfort  her,  protect  her  from  all  protozoa 
and  bacteria,  and  keep  her  in  good  health;  and, 
forsaking  all  other,  keep  thee  unto  her  only,  so 
long  as  ye  both  shall  live?  If  so,  hold  out  your 
tongue. 

(THE  BRIDEGROOM  holds  out  his  tongue  and 
THE  CLERGYMAN  inspects  it  critically.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Somewhat  dubiously)     Fair.     I  have  seen 
worse.  .   .  .  Do  you  smoke? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
(Obviously  lying)     Not  much. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
Well,  how  much? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
Say  ten  cigarettes  a  day. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

And  the  stain  noted  on  your  right  posterior 
phalanx  by  the  learned  medical  examiners? 


166  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
Well,  say  fifteen. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Waggishly)  Or  twenty  to  be  safe.  Better 
taper  off  to  ten.  At  all  events,  make  twenty 
the  limit.  How  about  the  booze? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
(Virtuously)     Never! 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
What!     Never? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
Well,  never  again ! 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

So  they  all  say.  The  answer  is  almost  part 
of  the  liturgy.  But  have  a  care,  my  dear  fel 
low!  The  true  eugenist  eschews  the  wine  cup. 
In  every  hundred  children  of  a  man  who  ingests 
one  fluid  ounce  of  alcohol  a  day,  six  will  be  left- 
handed,  twelve  will  be  epileptics  and  nineteen 
will  suffer  from  adolescent  albuminuria,  with 


Asepsis  167 

delusions  of  persecution.  .    .    .  Have  you  ever 
had  anthrax? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
Not  yet. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
Eczema? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Pott's  disease? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Cholelithiasis? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Do  you  have  a   feeling  of  distention  after 
meals? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Have  you  a  dry,  hacking  cough? 


168  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
Not  at  present. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
Are  you  troubled  with  insomnia? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Dyspepsia? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Agoraphobia? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Do  you  bolt  your  food? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Have  you  lightning  pains  in  the  legs? 


Asepsis  169 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Are  you  a  bleeder?    Have  you  haemophilia? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Erthrocythaemia?  Nephroptosis?  Fibrin- 
ous  bronchitis?  Salpingitis?  Pylephlebitis? 
Answer  yes  or  no. 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No.    No.    No.    No.    No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Have  you  ever  been  refused  life  insurance? 
If  so,  when,  by  what  company  or  companies,  and 
why? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

What  is  a  staphylococcus? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
No. 


170  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
(Sternly)     What? 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
(Nervously)    Yes. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Coming  to  the  rescue)  Wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  et  cetera?  Answer  yes  or  no. 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 
I  will. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Turning  to  THE  BRIDE)  Mary,  wilt  thou 
have  this  gentleman  to  be  thy  wedded  husband, 
to  live  together  in  the  holy  state  of  aseptic  matri 
mony?  Wilt  thou  love  him,  serve  him,  protect 
him  from  all  adulterated  victuals,  and  keep  him 
hygienically  clothed;  and  forsaking  all  others, 
keep  thee  only  unto  him,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall 
live?  If  so 

THE  BRIDE 
(Instantly  and  loudly)     I  will. 


Asepsis  171 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Not  so  fast!  First,  there  is  the  little  cere 
mony  of  the  clinical  thermometers.  (He  takes 
up  one  of  the  thermometers.)  Open  your 
mouth,  my  dear.  (He  inserts  the  thermom 
eter.)  Now  hold  it  there  while  you  count  one 
hundred  and  fifty.  And  you,  too.  (To  THE 
BRIDEGROOM.)  I  had  almost  forgotten  you. 
(THE  BRIDEGROOM  opens  his  mouth  and  the 
other  thermometer  is  duly  planted.  While  the 
two  are  counting,  THE  CLERGYMAN  attempts  to 
turn  back  one  of  THE  BRIDE'S  eyelids,  appar 
ently  searching  for  trachoma,  but  his  rubber 
gloves  impede  the  operation  and  so  he  gives  it 
up.  It  is  now  time  to  read  the  thermometers. 
THE  BRIDEGROOM'S  is  first  removed.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Reading  the  scale)  Ninety-nine  point  nine. 
Considering  everything,  not  so  bad.  (  The n  he 
removes  and  reads  THE  BRIDE'S.)  Ninety- 
eight  point  six.  Exactly  normal.  Cool,  col 
lected,  at  ease.  The  classical  self-possession  of 
the  party  of  the  second  part.  And  now,  my 
dear,  may  I  ask  you  to  hold  out  your  tongue? 
(THE  BRIDE  does  so.) 


172  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Perfect.  .  .  .  There;  that  will  do.  Put  it 
back.  .  .  .  And  now  for  a  few  questions — just 
a  few.  First,  do  you  use  opiates  in  any  form? 

THE  BRIDE 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Have  you  ever  had  goitre  ? 

THE  BRIDE 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Yellow  fever? 

THE  BRIDE 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Haematomata? 

THE  BRIDE 

No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Siriasis  or  tachycardia  ? 

THE  BRIDE 
No. 


Asepsis  173 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
What  did  your  maternal  grandfather  die  of? 

THE  BRIDE 
Of  chronic  interstitial  nephritis. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Interested)  Ah,  our  old  friend  Bright's! 
A  typical  case,  I  take,  with  the  usual  polyuria, 
oedema  of  the  glottis,  flame-shaped  retinal 
hemorrhages  and  cardiac  dilatation? 

THE  BRIDE 

Exactly. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

And  terminating,  I  suppose,  with  the  classical 
urzmic  symptoms  —  dyspnoea,  convulsions, 
uraemic  amaurosis,  coma  and  collapse? 

THE  BRIDE 
Including  Cheyne-Stokes  breathing. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Ah,  most  interesting!  A  protean  and  beau 
tiful  malady!  But  at  the  moment,  of  course, 


174  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

we  can't  discuss  it  profitably.    Perhaps  later  on. 
.   .   .  Your  father,  I  assume,  is  alive? 

THE  BRIDE 
(Indicating  him)     Yes. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Well,  then,  let  us  proceed.    Who  giveth  this 
woman  to  be  married  to  this  man? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
(With  a  touch  of  stage  fright.)     I  do. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
(Reassuringly)     You  are  in  good  health? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
Yes. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

No  dizziness  in  the  morning? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

No  black  spots  before  the  eyes? 


Asepsis  175 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

No  vague  pains  in  the  small  of  the  back? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
Gout? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
Chilblains? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Sciatica? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Buzzing  in  the  ears? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Myopia?    Angina  pcctoris? 


176  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Malaria?  Marasmus?  Chlorosis?  Tetanus? 
Quinsy?    Housemaid's  knee? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

You  had  measles,  I  assume,  in  your  infancy? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
Yes. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Chicken  pox?    Mumps?    Scarlatina?    Chol 
era  morbus?    Diphtheria? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
Yes.    Yes.    No.    Yes.     No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 
You  are,  I  assume,  a  multipara? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
A  what? 


Asepsis  177 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

That  is  to  say,  you  have  had  more  than  one 
child? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 
No. 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Professionally)  How  sad!  You  will  miss 
her  I 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 

One  job  like  this  is  en 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(Interrupting  suavely)  But  let  us  proceed. 
The  ceremony  must  not  be  lengthened  unduly, 
however  interesting.  We  now  approach  the 
benediction. 

(Dipping  his  gloved  hands  into  the  basin  of 
bichloride,  he  joins  the  right  hands  of  THE 
BRIDE  and  THE  BRIDEGROOM.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(To  THE  BRIDEGROOM)  Repeat  after  me: 
"I,  John,  take  thee,  Mary,  to  be  my  wedded 
and  aseptic  wife,  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this 


178  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

day  forward,  for  better,  for  worse,  for  richer, 
for  poorer,  in  sickness,  convalescence,  relapse 
and  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  till  death  do 
us  part;  and  thereto  I  plight  thee  my  troth." 

(THE  BRIDEGROOM  duly  repeats  the  formula, 
THE  CLERGYMAN  now  looses  their  hands,  and 
after  another  dip  into  the  bichloride,  joins  them 
together  again.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

(To  THE  BRIDE)  Repeat  after  me:  "I, 
Mary,  take  thee,  John,  to  be  my  aseptic  and 
eugenic  husband,  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this 
day  forward,  for  better,  for  worse,  for  richer, 
for  poorer,  to  love,  to  cherish  and  to  nurse,  till 
death  do  us  part;  and  thereto  I  give  thee  my 
troth." 

(THE  BRIDE  duly  promises.  THE  BEST  MAN 
then  hands  over  the  ring,  which  THE  CLERGY 
MAN  drops  into  the  bichloride.  It  turns  green. 
He  fishes  it  up  again,  wipes  it  dry  with  a  piece 
of  aseptic  cotton  and  presents  it  to  THE  BRIDE 
GROOM,  who  places  it  upon  the  third  finger  of 
THE  BRIDE'S  left  hand.  Then  THE  CLERGY 
MAN  goes  on  with  the  ceremony,  THE  BRIDE 
GROOM  repeating  after  him.) 


Asepsis  179 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Repeat  after  me:  "With  this  sterile  ring  I 
thee  wed,  and  with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  thee 
endow." 

(THE  CLERGYMAN  then  joins  the  hands  of 
THE  BRIDE  and  BRIDEGROOM  once  more,  and 
dipping  his  own  right  hand  into  the  bichloride, 
solemnly  sprinkles  the  pair.) 

THE  CLERGYMAN 

Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let 
no  pathogenic  organism  put  asunder.  ( To  the 
assembled  company.)  Forasmuch  as  John  and 
Mary  have  consented  together  in  aseptic  wed 
lock,  and  have  witnessed  the  same  by  the  ex 
change  of  certificates,  and  have  given  and 
pledged  their  troth,  and  have  declared  the  same 
by  giving  and  receiving  an  aseptic  ring,  I  pro 
nounce  that  they  are  man  and  wife.  In  the 
name  of  Mendel,  of  Galton,  of  Havelock  Ellis 
and  of  David  Starr  Jordan.  Amen. 

(THE  BRIDE  and  BRIDEGROOM  now  kiss,  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  after  which  they  gargle 
with  two  per  cent  carbolic  and  march  out  of  the 
room,  followed  by  THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER  and 


180  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

the  spectators.  THE  BEST  MAN,  before  de 
parting  after  them,  hands  THE  CLERGYMAN  a 
ten-dollar  gold-piece  in  a  small  phial  of  twenty 
per  cent  bichloride.  THE  CLERGYMAN,  after 
pocketing  it,  washes  his  hands  with  green  soap. 
THE  BRIDESMAIDS  proceed  to  clean  up  the  room 
with  the  remaining  bichloride.  This  done,  they 
and  THE  CLERGYMAN  go  out.  As  soon  as  they 
are  gone,  the  operating  table  is  pushed  back  into 
place  by  an  orderly,  a  patient  is  brought  in,  and 
a  surgeon  proceeds  to  cut  of  his  leg.) 


X. -TALES  OF  THE  MOR 
AL  AND  PATHOLOGICAL 


X  —  Tales  of  the  Moral  and 
Pathological 

I. — The  Rewards  of  Science 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  surgeon 
who  spent  seven  years  perfecting  an 
extraordinarily  delicate  and  laborious 
operation  for  the  cure  of  a  rare  and 
deadly    disease.      In    the    process     he    wore 
out    $400    worth    of    knives    and    saws    and 
used  up  $6,000  worth  of  ether,  splints,  guinea 
pigs,  homeless  dogs  and  bichloride  of  mercury. 
His  board  and  lodging  during  the  seven  years 
came  to  $2,875.     Finally  he  got  a  patient  and 
performed  the  operation.     It  took  eight  hours 
and  cost  him  $17  more  than  his  fee  of  $20.  .  .  . 
One  day,  two  months  after  the  patient  was 
discharged  as  cured,  the  surgeon  stopped  in  his 
rambles  to  observe  a  street  parade.    It  was  the 
annual  turnout  of  Good  Hope  Lodge,  No.  72, 
of  the  Patriotic  Order  of  American  Rosicru- 
cians.    The  cured  patient,  marching  as  Supreme 
Worthy  Archon,  wore  a  lavendar  baldric,  a  pea- 

183 


184  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

green  sash,  an  aluminum  helmet  and  scarlet 
gauntlets,  and  carried  an  ormolu  sword  and 
the  blue  polka-dot  flag  of  a  rear-admiral.  .  .  . 
With  a  low  cry  the  surgeon  jumped  down  a 
sewer  and  was  seen  no  more. 


//. — The  Incomparable  Physician 

The  eminent  physician,  Yen  Li-Shen,  being 
called  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  the  bedside 
of  the  rich  tax-gatherer,  Chu  Yi-Foy,  found  his 
distinguished  patient  suffering  from  a  spasm  of 
the  liver.  An  examination  of  the  pulse,  tongue, 
toe-nails,  and  hair-roots  revealing  the  fact  that 
the  malady  was  caused  by  the  presence  of  a  mul 
titude  of  small  worms  in  the  blood,  the  learned 
doctor  forthwith  dispatched  his  servant  to  his 
surgery  for  a  vial  of  gnats'  eyes  dissolved  in 
the  saliva  of  men  executed  by  strangling,  that 
being  the  remedy  advised  by  Li  Tan-Kien  and 
other  high  authorities  for  the  relief  of  this  pain 
ful  and  dangerous  condition. 

When  the  servant  returned  the  patient  was 
so  far  gone  that  Cheyne-Stokes  breathing  had 
already  set  in,  and  so  the  doctor  decided  to  ad 
minister  the  whole  contents  of  the  vial — an 
heroic  dose,  truly,  for  it  has  been  immemorially 
held  that  even  so  little  as  the  amount  that  will 


Taks  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  185 

cling  to  the  end  of  a  horse  hair  is  sufficient  to 
cure.  Alas,  in  his  professional  zeal  and  excite 
ment,  the  celebrated  pathologist  permitted  his 
hand  to  shake  like  a  myrtle  leaf  in  a  Spring 
gale,  and  so  he  dropped  not  only  the  contents 
of  the  vial,  but  also  the  vial  itself  down  the 
oesophagus  of  his  moribund  patient. 

The  accident,  however,  did  not  impede  the 
powerful  effects  of  this  famous  remedy.  In  ten 
minutes  Chu  Yi-Foy  was  so  far  recovered  that 
he  asked  for  a  plate  of  rice  stewed  with  plums, 
and  by  morning  he  was  able  to  leave  his  bed 
and  receive  the  reports  of  his  spies,  informers 
and  extortioners.  That  day  he  sent  for  Dr. 
Yen  and  in  token  of  his  gratitude,  for  he  was 
a  just  and  righteous  man,  settled  upon  him  in 
due  form  of  law,  and  upon  his  heirs  and  assigns 
in  perpetuity,  the  whole  rents,  rates,  imposts 
and  taxes,  amounting  to  no  less  than  ten  thou 
sand  Hangkow  taels  a  year,  of  two  of  the 
streets  occupied  by  money-changers,  bird-cage 
makers  and  public  women  in  the  town  of  Szu- 
Loon,  and  of  the  related  alleys,  courts  and  lanes. 
And  Dr.  Yen,  with  his  old  age  and  the  old  age 
of  his  seven  sons  and  thirty-one  grandsons  now 
safely  provided  for,  retired  from  the  practise  ot 
his  art,  and  devoted  himself  to  a  tedious  scien 
tific  inquiry  (long  the  object  of  his  passionate 


186  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

aspiration)  into  the  precise  physiological  rela 
tion  between  gravel  in  the  lower  lobe  of  the 
heart  and  the  bursting  of  arteries  in  the  arms 
and  legs. 

So  passed  many  years,  while  Dr.  Yen  pursued 
his  researches  and  sent  his  annual  reports  of 
progress  to  the  Academy  of  Medicine  at  Chan- 
Si,  and  Chu  Yi-Foy  increased  his  riches  and  his 
influence,  so  that  his  arm  reached  out  from  the 
mountains  to  the  sea.  One  day,  in  his  eightieth 
year,  Chu  Yi-Foy  fell  ill  again,  and,  having  no 
confidence  in  any  other  physician,  sent  once 
more  for  the  learned  and  now  venerable  Dr. 
Yen. 

"I  have  a  pain,"  he  said,  "in  my  left  hip, 
where  the  stomach  dips  down  over  the  spleen. 
A  large  knob  has  formed  there.  A  lizard,  per 
haps,  has  got  into  me.  Or  perhaps  a  small 
hedge-hog." 

Dr.  Yen  thereupon  made  use  of  the  test  for 
lizards  and  hedge-hogs — to  wit,  the  application 
of  madder  dye  to  the  Adam's  apple,  turning  it 
lemon  yellow  if  any  sort  of  reptile  is  within,  and 
violet  if  there  is  a  mammal — but  it  failed  to 
operate  as  the  books  describe.  Being  thus  led 
to  suspect  a  misplaced  and  wild-growing  bone, 
perhaps  from  the  vertebral  column,  the  doctor 
decided  to  have  recourse  to  surgery,  and  so, 


Talcs  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  187 

after  the  proper  propitiation  of  the  gods,  he 
administered  to  his  eminent  patient  a  draught  of 
opium  water,  and  having  excluded  the  wailing 
women  of  the  household  from  the  sick  chamber, 
he  cut  into  the  protuberance  with  a  small,  sharp 
knife,  and  soon  had  the  mysterious  object  in 
his  hand.  ...  It  was  the  vial  of  dissolved 
gnats'  eyes — still  full  and  tightly  corked! 
Worse,  it  was  not  the  vial  of  dissolved  gnats' 
eyes,  but  a  vial  of  common  burdock  juice — the 
remedy  for  infants  griped  by  their  mothers' 
milk.  .  .  . 

But  when  the  eminent  Chu  Yi-Foy,  emerging 
from  his  benign  stupor,  made  a  sign  that  he 
would  gaze  upon  the  cause  of  his  distress,  it 
was  a  bone  that  Dr.  Yen  Li-Shen  showed  him— 
an  authentic  bone,  ovoid  and  evil-looking — and 
lately  the  knee  cap  of  one  Ho  Kwang,  brass 
maker  in  the  street  of  Szchen-Kiang.  Dr.  Yen 
carried  this  bone  in  his  girdle  to  keep  off  the 
black,  blue  and  yellow  plagues.  Chu  Yi-Foy, 
looking  upon  it,  wept  the  soft,  grateful  tears  of 
an  old  man. 

uThis  is  twice,"  he  said,  "that  you,  my 
learned  friend,  have  saved  my  life.  I  have  hith 
erto  given  you,  in  token  of  my  gratitude,  the 
rents,  rates,  imposts  and  taxes,  of  two  streets, 
and  of  the  related  alleys,  courts  and  lanes.  I 


188  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

now  give  you  the  weight  of  that  bone  in  dia 
monds,  in  rubies,  in  pearls  or  in  emeralds,  as 
you  will.  And  whichever  of  the  four  you 
choose,  I  give  you  the  other  three  also.  For 
is  it  not  said  by  K'ung  Fu-tsze,  'The  good  phy 
sician  bestows  what  the  gods  merely  promise'?" 
And  Dr.  Yen  Li-Shen  lowered  his  eyes  and 
bowed.  But  he  was  too  old  in  the  healing  art 
to  blush. 

///. — Neighbours 

Once  I  lay  in  hospital  a  fortnight  while  an 
old  man  died  by  inches  across  the  hall.  Ap 
parently  a  very  painful,  as  it  was  plainly  a  very 
tedious  business.  I  would  hear  him  breathing 
heavily  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and  then 
he  would  begin  shrieking  in  agony  and  yelling 
for  his  orderly:  "Charlie!  Charlie!  Charlie!" 
Now  and  then  a  nurse  would  come  into  my  room 
and  report  progress:  "The  old  fellow's  kid 
neys  have  given  up;  he  can't  last  the  night,"  or, 
"I  suppose  the  next  choking  spell  will  fetch 
him."  Thus  he  fought  his  titanic  fight  with  the 
gnawing  rats  of  death,  and  thus  I  lay  listening, 
myself  quickly  recovering  from  a  sanguinary 
and  indecent  operation.  .  .  .  Did  the  shrieks 
of  that  old  man  startle  me,  worry  me,  torture 
me,  set  my  nerves  on  edge?  Not  at  all.  I  had 


Talcs  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  189 

my  meals  to  the  accompaniment  of  piteous  yells 
to  God,  but  day  by  day  I  ate  them  more  heart 
ily.  I  lay  still  in  bed  and  read  a  book  or  smoked 
a  cigar.  I  damned  my  own  twinges  and  fading 
malaises.  I  argued  ignorantly  with  the  sur 
geons.  I  made  polite  love  to  the  nurses  who 
happened  in.  At  night  I  slept  soundly,  the  noise 
retreating  benevolently  as  I  dropped  off.  And 
when  the  old  fellow  died  at  last,  snarling  and 
begging  for  mercy  with  his  last  breath,  the  unac 
customed  stillness  made  me  feel  lonesome  and 
sad,  like  a  child  robbed  of  a  tin  whistle.  .  .  . 
But  when  a  young  surgeon  came  in  half  an  hour 
later,  and,  having  dined  to  his  content,  testified 
to  it  by  sucking  his  teeth,  cold  shudders  ran 
through  me  from  stem  to  stern. 

IV.— From  the  Chart 

Temperature:  99.7.  Respiration:  rising  to 
65  and  then  suddenly  suspended.  The  face  is 
flushed,  and  the  eyes  are  glazed  and  half-closed. 
There  is  obviously  a  sub-normal  reaction  to  ex 
ternal  stimuli.  A  fly  upon  the  ear  is  unnoticed. 
The  auditory  nerve  is  anesthetic.  There  is  a 
swaying  of  the  whole  body  and  an  apparent 
failure  of  co-ordination,  probably  the  effect  of 
some  disturbance  in  the  semi-circular  canals  of 


190  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

the  ear.  The  hands  tremble  and  then  clutch 
wildly.  The  head  is  inclined  forward  as  if  to 
approach  some  object  on  a  level  with  the 
shoulder.  The  mouth  stands  partly  open,  and 
the  lips  are  puckered  and  damp.  Of  a  sudden 
there  is  a  sound  as  of  a  deep  and  labored  inspir 
ation,  suggesting  the  upward  curve  of  Cheyne- 
Stokes  breathing.  Then  comes  silence  for  40 
seconds,  followed  by  a  quick  relaxation  of  the 
whole  body  and  a  sharp  gasp.  .  .  . 
One  of  the  internes  has  kissed  a  nurse. 

V . — The  Interior  Hierarchy 

The  world  awaits  that  pundit  who  will  study 
at  length  the  relative  respectability  of  the  in 
ward  parts  of  man — his  pipes  and  bellows,  his 
liver  and  lights.  The  inquiry  will  take  him  far 
into  the  twilight  zones  of  psychology.  Why  is 
the  vermiform  appendix  so  much  more  virtuous 
and  dignified  than  its  next-door  neighbor,  the 
caecum?  Considered  physiologically,  anatomic 
ally,  pathologically,  surgically,  the  caecum  is 
the  decenter  of  the  two.  It  has  more  cleanly 
habits;  it  is  more  beautiful;  it  serves  a  more 
useful  purpose;  it  brings  its  owner  less  often 
to  the  doors  of  death.  And  yet  what  would  one 
think  of  a  lady  who  mentioned  her  caecum? 


Tales  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  191 

But  the  appendix — ah,  the  appendix!  The  ap 
pendix  is  pure,  polite,  ladylike,  even  noble.  It 
confers  an  unmistakable  stateliness,  a  stamp  of 
position,  a  social  consequence  upon  its  possessor. 
And,  by  one  of  the  mysteries  of  viscerology,  it 
confers  even  more  stateliness  upon  its  ex-pos- 
sessor! 

Alas,  what  would  you !  Why  is  the  stomach 
such  a  libertine  and  outlaw  in  England,  and  so 
highly  respectable  in  the  United  States?  No 
Englishman  of  good  breeding,  save  he  be  far 
gone  in  liquor,  ever  mentions  his  stomach  in  the 
presence  of  women,  clergymen,  or  the  Royal 
Family.  To  avoid  the  necessity — for  English 
men,  too,  are  subject  to  the  colic — he  employs 
various  far-fetched  euphemisms,  among  them, 
the  poetical  Little  Mary.  No  such  squeamish- 
ness  is  known  in  America.  The  American  dis 
cusses  his  stomach  as  freely  as  he  discusses  his 
business.  More,  he  regards  its  name  with  a 
degree  of  respect  verging  upon  reverence — and 
so  he  uses  it  as  a  euphemism  for  the  whole 
region  from  the  diaphragm  to  the  pelvic  arch. 
Below  his  heart  he  has  only  a  stomach  and  a 
vermiform  appendix. 

In  the  Englishman  that  large  region  is  filled 
entirely  by  his  liver,  at  least  in  polite  conver 
sation.  He  never  mentions  his  kidneys  save  to 


192  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

his  medical  adviser,  but  he  will  tell  even  a  parlor 
maid  that  he  is  feeling  liverish.  "Sorry,  old 
chap;  I'm  not  up  to  it.  Been  seedy  for  a  fort 
night.  Touch  of  liver,  I  dessay.  Never  felt 
quite  fit  since  I  came  Home.  Bones  full  of 
fever.  Damned  old  liver  always  kicking  up. 
Awfully  sorry,  old  fellow.  Awsk  me  again. 
Glad  to,  pon  my  word."  But  never  the  Ameri 
can  !  Nay,  the  American  keeps  his  liver  for  his 
secret  thoughts.  Hobnailed  it  may  be,  and 
the  most  interesting  thing  within  his  frontiers, 
but  he  would  blush  to  mention  it  to  a  lady. 

Myself  intensely  ignorant  of  anatomy,  and 
even  more  so  of  the  punctilio,  I  yet  attempted, 
one  rainy  day,  a  roster  of  the  bodily  parts  in 
the  order  of  their  respectability.  Class  I  was 
small  and  exclusive;  when  I  had  put  in  the  heart, 
the  brain,  the  hair,  the  eyes  and  the  vermiform 
appendix,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  candidates. 
Here  were  the  five  aristocrats,  of  dignity  even 
in  their  diseases — appendicitis,  angina  pectoris, 
aphasia,  acute  alcoholism,  astigmatism:  what  a 
row  of  a's !  Here  were  the  dukes,  the  cardinals, 
nay,  the  princes  of  the  blood.  Here  were  the 
supermembers;  the  beyond-parts. 

In  Class  II  I  found  a  more  motley  throng, 
led  by  the  collar-bone  on  the  one  hand  and  the 


Tales  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  193 

tonsils  on  the  other.     And  in  Class  III — but 
let  me  present  my  classification  and  have  done: 

CLASS  II 

Collar-bone 

Stomach   (American) 

Liver    (English) 

Bronchial   tubes 

Arms  (excluding  elbows) 

Tonsils 

Vocal  chords 

Ears 

Cheeks 

Chin 

CLASS  III 

Elbows 

Ankles 

Aorta 

Teeth   (if  natural) 

Shoulders 

Windpipe 

Lungs 

Neck 

Jugular  vein 

CLASS  IV 

Stomach    (English) 
Liver   (American) 


194  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Solar  plexus 

Hips 

Calves 

Pleura 

Nose 

Feet   (bare) 

Shins 

CLASS  V 

Teeth  (if  false) 
Heels 

Toes 

Kidneys 

Knees 

Diaphragm 

Thyroid  gland 

Legs   (female) 

Scalp 

CLASS  VI 

Thighs 

Paunch 

CEsophagus 

Spleen 

Pancreas 

Gall-bladder 

Caecum 

I  made  two  more  classes,  VII  and  VIII,  but 
they  entered  into  anatomical  details  impossible 


Tales  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  195 

of  discussion  in  a  book  designed  to  be  read 
aloud  at  the  domestic  hearth.  Perhaps  I  shall 
print  them  in  the  Medical  Times  at  some  future 
time.  As  my  classes  stand,  they  present  mys 
teries  enough.  Why  should  the  bronchial  tubes 
(Class  II)  be  so  much  lordlier  than  the  lungs 
(Class  III)  to  which  they  lead?  And  why 
should  the  oesophagus  (Class  VI)  be  so  much 
less  lordly  than  the  stomach  (Class  II  in  the 
United  States,  Class  IV  in  England)  to  which  it 
leads?  And  yet  the  fact  in  each  case  is  known 
to  us  all.  To  have  a  touch  of  bronchitis  is 
almost  fashionable;  to  have  pneumonia  is 
merely  bad  luck.  The  stomach,  at  least  in 
America,  is  so  respectable  that  it  dignifies  even 
seasickness,  but  I  have  never  heard  of  any  de 
cent  man  who  ever  had  any  trouble  with  his 
oesophagus. 

If  you  wish  a  short  cut  to  a  strange  organ's 
standing,  study  its  diseases.  Generally  speak 
ing,  they  are  sure  indices.  Let  us  imagine  a 
problem:  What  is  the  relative  respectability 
of  the  hair  and  the  scalp,  close  neighbors,  off 
spring  of  the  same  osseous  tissue?  Turn  to 
baldness  and  dandruff,  and  you  have  your  an 
swer.  To  be  bald  is  no  more  than  a  genial 
jocosity,  a  harmless  foible — but  to  have  dan 
druff  is  almost  as  bad  as  to  have  beri-beri. 


196  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Hence  the  fact  that  the  hair  is  in  Class  I,  while 
the  scalp  is  at  the  bottom  of  Class  V.  So  again 
and  again.  To  break  one's  collar-bone  (Class 
II)  is  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  nobility  and 
gentry;  to  crack  one's  shin  (Class  IV)  is  merely 
vulgar.  And  what  a  difference  between  having 
one's  tonsils  cut  out  (Class  II)  and  getting  a 
new  set  of  false  teeth  (Class  V)  ! 

Wherefore?  Why?  To  what  end?  Why 
is  the  stomach  so  much  more  respectable  (even 
in  England)  than  the  spleen;  the  liver  (even  in 
America)  than  the  pancreas;  the  windpipe  than 
the  oesophagus;  the  pleura  than  the  diaphragm? 
Why  is  the  collar-bone  the  undisputed  king  of 
the  osseous  frame?  One  can  understand  the 
supremacy  of  the  heart:  it  plainly  bosses  the 
whole  vascular  system.  But  why  do  the  bron 
chial  tubes  wag  the  lungs?  Why  is  the  chin 
superior  to  the  nose?  The  ankles  to  the  shins? 
The  solar  plexus  to  the  gall-bladder? 

I  am  unequal  to  the  penetration  of  this  great 
ethical,  aesthetical  and  sociological  mystery. 
But  in  leaving  it,  let  me  point  to  another  and 
antagonistic  one:  to  wit,  that  which  concerns 
those  viscera  of  the  lower  animals  that  we  use 
for  food.  The  kidneys  in  man  are  far  down 
the  scale — far  down  in  Class  V,  along  with 
false  teeth,  the  scalp  and  the  female  leg.  But 


Talcs  of  the  Moral  and  Pathological  197 

the  kidneys  of  the  beef  steer,  the  calf,  the  sheep, 
or  whatever  animal  it  is  whose  kidneys  we  eat 
— the  kidneys  of  this  creature  are  close  to  the 
borders  of  Class  I.  What  is  it  that  young  Capt. 
Lionel  Basingstoke,  M.P.,  always  orders  when 
he  drops  in  at  Gatti's  on  his  way  from  his 
chambers  in  the  Albany  to  that  flat  in  Tyburnia 
where  Mrs.  Vaughn-Grimsby  is  waiting  for  him 
to  rescue  her  from  her  cochon  of  a  husband? 
What  else  but  deviled  kidneys?  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  gallant  young  English  seducer  who 
didn't  eat  deviled  kidneys — not  now  and  then, 
not  only  on  Sundays  and  legal  holidays,  but 
every  day,  every  evening? 

Again,  and  by  way  of  postscript  No.  2,  con 
centrate  your  mind  upon  sweetbreads.  Sweet 
breads  are  made  in  Chicago  of  the  pancreases 
of  horned  cattle.  From  Portland  to  Portland 
they  belong  to  the  first  class  of  refined  delica 
tessen.  And  yet,  on  the  human  plane,  the  pan 
creas  is  in  Class  VI,  along  with  the  cscum 
and  the  paunch.  And,  contrariwise,  there  is 
tripe — "the  stomach  of  the  ox  or  of  some  other 
ruminant."  The  stomach  of  an  American  citi 
zen  belongs  to  Class  II,  and  even  the  stomach 
of  an  Englishman  is  in  Class  IV,  but  tripe  is 
far  down  in  Class  VIII.  And  chitterlings — the 
excised  vermiform  appendix  of  the  cow.  Of 


XI.-THE  JAZZ  WEBSTER 


XL     The  Jazz  Webster 


ACTOR.     One     handicapped     more     by     a 
wooden  leg  than  by  a  wooden  head. 

ADULTERY.     Democracy  applied  to  love. 

ALIMONY.  The  ransom  that  the  happy  pay 
to  the  devil. 

ANTI-VIVISECTIONIST.  One  who  gags  at  a 
guinea-pig  and  swallows  a  baby. 

ARCHBISHOP.  A  Christian  ecclesiastic  of  a 
rank  superior  to  that  attained  by  Christ. 

ARGUMENT.  A  means  of  persuasion.  The 
agents  of  argumentation  under  a  democracy, 
in  the  order  of  their  potency,  are  (a)  whiskey, 
(b)  beer,  (c)  cigars,  (d)  tears. 

AXIOM.  Something  that  everyone  believes. 
When  everyone  begins  to  believe  anything  it 
ceases  to  be  true.  For  example,  the  notion  that 
the  homeliest  girl  in  the  party  is  the  safest. 

BALLOT  Box.  The  altar  of  democracy. 
The  cult  served  upon  it  is  the  worship  of  jackals 
by  jackasses. 

BREVITY.     The    quality    that    makes    ciga- 

201 


202  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

rettes,  speeches,  love  affairs  and  ocean  voyages 
bearable. 

CELEBRITY.  One  who  is  known  to  many 
persons  he  is  glad  he  doesn't  know. 

CHAUTAUQUA.  A  place  in  which  persons 
who  are  not  worth  talking  to  listen  to  that  which 
is  not  worth  hearing. 

CHRISTIAN.  One  who  believes  that  God 
notes  the  fall  of  a  sparrow  and  is  shocked  half 
to  death  by  the  fall  of  a  Sunday-school  superin 
tendent;  one  who  is  willing  to  serve  three  Gods, 
but  draws  the  line  at  one  wife. 

CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE.  The  theory  that,  since 
the  sky  rockets  following  a  wallop  in  the 
eye  are  optical  delusions,  the  wallop  itself  is 
a  delusion  and  the  eye  another. 

CHURCH.  A  place  in  which  gentlemen  who 
have  never  been  to  Heaven  brag  about  it  to 
persons  who  will  never  get  there. 

CIVILIZATION.  A  concerted  effort  to  remedy 
the  blunders  and  check  the  practical  joking  of 
God. 

CLERGYMAN.  A  ticket  speculator  outside 
the  gates  of  Heaven. 

CONSCIENCE.  The  inner  voice  which  warns 
us  that  someone  is  looking. 

CONFIDENCE.     The  feeling  that  makes  one 


The  Jazz  Webster  203 

believe  a  man,  even  when  one  knows  that  one 
would  lie  in  his  place. 

COURTROOM.  A  place  where  Jesus  Christ 
and  Judus  Iscariot  would  be  equals,  with  the 
betting  odds  in  favor  of  Judas. 

CREATOR.  A  comedian  whose  audience  is 
afraid  to  laugh.  Three  proofs  of  His  humor: 
democracy',  hay  fever,  any  fat  woman. 

DEMOCRACY.  The  theory  that  two  thieves 
will  steal  less  than  one,  and  three  less  than  two, 
and  four  less  than  three,  and  so  on  a d  infinitum; 
the  theory  that  the  common  people  know  what 
they  want,  and  deserve  to  get  it  good  and 
hard. 

EPIGRAM.  A  platitude  with  vine-leaves  in 
its  hair. 

EUGENICS.  The  theory  that  marriages 
should  be  made  in  the  laboratory;  the  Wasser- 
mann  test  for  love. 

EVIL.  That  which  one  believes  of  others. 
It  is  a  sin  to  believe  evil  of  others,  but  it  is 
seldom  a  mistake.  . 

EXPERIENCE.  A  series  of  failures.  Every 
failure  teaches  a  man  something,  to  wit,  that 
he  will  probably  fail  again  next  time. 

FAME.  An  embalmer  trembling  with  stage- 
fright. 


204  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

FINE.  A  bribe  paid  by  a  rich  man  to  escape 
the  lawful  penalty  of  his  crime.  In  China  such 
bribes  are  paid  to  the  judge  personally;  in 
America  they  are  paid  to  him  as  agent  for  the 
public.  But  it  makes  no  difference  to  the  men 
who  pay  them  —  nor  to  the  men  who  can't  pay 
them. 

FIRMNESS.  A  form  of  stupidity;  proof  of 
an  inability  to  think  the  same  thing  out  twice. 

FRIENDSHIP.  A  mutual  belief  in  the  same 
fallacies,  mountebanks,  hobgoblins  and  imbecili 
ties. 

GENTLEMAN.  One  who  never  strikes  a 
woman  without  provocation;  one  on  whose 
word  of  honor  the  betting  odds  are  at  least  i 
to  2. 

HAPPINESS.  Peace  after  effort,  the  over 
coming  of  difficulties,  the  feeling  of  security  and 
well-being.  The  only  really  happy  folk  are 
married  women  and  single  men. 

HELL.  A  place  where  the  Ten  Command 
ments  have  a  police  force  behind  them. 

HISTORIAN.     An  unsuccessful  novelist. 

HONEYMOON.  The  time  during  which  the 
bride  believes  the  bridegroom's  word  of  honor. 

HOPE.  A  pathological  belief  in  the  occur 
rence  of  the  impossible. 

HUMANITARIAN.     One  who  would  be  sin- 


Tlic  Jazz  Webster  205 

cerely  sorry  to  see  his  neighbor's  children  de 
voured  by  wolves. 

HUSBAND.  One  who  played  safe  and  is  now 
played  safely.  A  No.  16  neck  in  a  No.  \$l/2 
collar. 

HYGIENE.  Bacteriology  made  moral;  the 
theory  that  the  Italian  in  the  ditch  should  be 
jailed  for  spitting  on  his  hands. 

IDEALIST.  One  who,  on  noticing  that  a  rose 
smells  better  than  a  cabbage,  concludes  that  it 
will  also  make  better  soup. 

IMMORALITY.  The  morality  of  those  who 
are  having  a  better  time.  You  will  never  con 
vince  the  average  farmer's  mare  that  the  late 
Maud  S.  was  not  dreadfully  immoral. 

IMMORTALITY.  The  condition  of  a  dead 
man  who  doesn't  believe  that  he  is  dead. 

JEALOUSY.  The  theory  that  some  other  fel 
low  has  just  as  little  taste. 

JUDGE.  An  officer  appointed  to  mislead,  re 
strain,  hynotize,  cajole,  seduce,  browbeat,  flab 
bergast  and  bamboozle  a  jury  in  such  a  manner 
that  it  will  forget  all  the  facts  and  give  its  de 
cision  to  the  best  lawyer.  The  objection  to 
judges  is  that  they  are  seldom  capable  of  a 
sound  professional  judgment  of  lawyers.  The 
objection  to  lawyers  is  that  the  best  are  the 
worst. 


206  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

JURY.  A  group  of  twelve  men  who,  having 
lied  to  the  judge  about  their  hearing,  health 
and  business  engagements,  have  failed  to  fool 
him. 

LAWYER.  One  who  protects  us  against  rob 
bers  by  taking  away  the  temptation. 

LlAR.  (a)  One  who  pretends  to  be  very 
good;  (b)  one  who  pretends  to  be  very  bad. 

LOVE.  The  delusion  that  one  woman  differs 
from  another. 

LovE-AT-FiRST-SiGHT.  A  labor-saving  de 
vice. 

LOVER.  An  apprentice  second  husband;  vic 
tim  No.  2  in  the  larval  stage. 

MISOGYNIST.  A  man  who  hates  women  as 
much  as  women  hate  one  another. 

MARTYR.  The  husband  of  a  woman  with 
the  martyr  complex. 

MORALITY.  The  theory  that  every  human 
act  must  be  either  right  or  wrong,  and  that 
99%  of  them  are  wrong. 

Music-LovER.  One  who  can  tell  you  off 
hand  how  many  sharps  are  in  the  key  of  C 
major. 

OPTIMIST.  The  sort  of  man  who  marries 
his  sister's  best  friend. 

OSTEOPATH.  One  who  argues  that  all  hu 
man  ills  are  caused  by  the  pressure  of  hard  bone 


The  Jazz  Webster  207 

upon  soft  tissue.  The  proof  of  his  theory  is 
to  be  found  in  the  heads  of  those  who  believe  it. 

PASTOR.  One  employed  by  the  wicked  to 
prove  to  them  by  his  example  that  virtue  doesn't 
pay. 

PATRIOTISM.  A  variety  of  hallucination 
which,  if  it  seized  a  bacteriologist  in  his  labora 
tory,  would  cause  him  to  report  the  streptococ 
cus  pyogenes  to  be  as  large  as  a  Newfoundland 
dog,  as  intelligent  as  Socrates,  as  beautiful  as 
Mont  Blanc  and  as  respectable  as  a  Yale  pro 
fessor. 

PENSIONER.     A  kept  patriot. 

PLATITUDE.  An  idea  (a)  that  is  admitted 
to  be  true  by  everyone,  and  (b)  that  is  not  true. 

POLITICIAN.  Any  citizen  with  influence 
enough  to  get  his  old  mother  a  job  as  char 
woman  in  the  City  Hall. 

POPULARITY.  The  capacity  for  listening 
sympathetically  when  men  boast  of  their  wives 
and  women  complain  of  their  husbands. 

POSTERITY.  The  penalty  of  a  faulty  tech 
nique. 

PROGRESS.  The  process  whereby  the  human 
race  has  got  rid  of  whiskers,  the  vermiform 
appendix  and  God. 

PROHIBITIONIST.  The  sort  of  man  one 
wouldn't  care  to  drink  with,  even  if  he  drank. 


208  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

PSYCHOLOGIST.  One  who  sticks  pins  into 
babies,  and  then  makes  a  chart  showing  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  their  yells. 

PSYCHOTHERAPY.  The  theory  that  the  pa 
tient  will  probably  get  well  anyhow,  and  is 
certainly  a  damned  fool. 

QUACK.  A  physician  who  has  decided  to 
admit  it. 

REFORMER.  A  hangman  signing  a  petition 
against  vivisection. 

REMORSE.  Regret  that  one  waited  so  long 
to  do  it. 

SELF-RESPECT.  The  secure  feeling  that  no 
one,  as  yet,  is  suspicious. 

SOB.  A  sound  made  by  women,  babies, 
tenors,  fashionable  clergymen,  actors  and 
drunken  men. 

SOCIALISM.  The  theory  that  John  Smith  is 
better  than  his  superiors. 

SUICIDE.  A  belated  acquiescence  in  the  opin 
ion  of  one's  wife's  relatives. 

SUNDAY.  A  day  given  over  by  Americans 
to  wishing  that  they  themselves  were  dead  and 
in  Heaven,  and  that  their  neighbors  were  dead 
and  in  Hell. 

SUNDAY  SCHOOL.  A  prison  in  which  chil 
dren  do  penance  for  the  evil  conscience  of  their 
parents. 


The  Jazz  Webster  209 

SURGEON.  One  bribed  heavily  by  the  pa 
tient  to  take  the  blame  for  the  family  doctor's 
error  in  diagnosis. 

TEMPTATION.  An  irresistible  force  at  work 
on  a  movable  body. 

THANKSGIVING  DAY.  A  day  devoted  by 
persons  with  inflammatory  rheumatism  to  thank 
ing  a  loving  Father  that  it  is  not  hydrophobia. 

THEOLOGY.  An  effort  to  explain  the  un 
knowable  by  putting  it  into  terms  of  the  not 
worth  knowing. 

TOMBSTONE.  An  ugly  reminder  of  one  who 
has  been  forgotten. 

TRUTH.  Something  somehow  discreditable 
to  someone. 

UNIVERSITY.  A  place  for  elevating  sons 
above  the  social  rank  of  their  fathers.  In  the 
great  American  universities  men  are  ranked  as 
follows:  i.  Seducers;  2.  Fullbacks;  3.  Booze- 
fighters;  4.  Pitchers  and  Catchers;  5.  Poker 
players;  6.  Scholars;  7.  Christians. 

VERDICT.  The  a  priori  opinion  of  that  juror 
who  smokes  the  worst  cigars. 

VERS  LIBRE.  A  device  for  making  poetry 
easier  to  write  and  harder  to  read. 

WART.  Something  that  outlasts  ten  thou 
sand  kisses. 

WEALTH.     Any  income  that  is  at  least  $100 


210  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

more  a  year  than  the  income  of  one's  wife's 
sister's  husband. 

WEDDING.  A  device  for  exciting  envy  in 
women  and  terror  in  men. 

WIFE.  One  who  is  sorry  she  did  it,  but 
would  undoubtedly  do  it  again. 

WIDOWER.     One  released  on  parole. 

WOMAN.  Before  marriage,  an  agente  pro- 
vocateuse;  after  marriage,  a  gendarme. 

WOMEN'S  CLUB.  A  place  in  which  the 
validity  of  a  philosophy  is  judged  by  the  hat 
of  its  prophetess. 

YACHT  CLUB.  An  asylum  for  landsmen 
who  would  rather  die  of  drink  than  be  seasick. 


XIL-THE  OLD  SUBJECT 


XI  I.  -The  Old  Subject 


Men  have  a  much  better  time  of  it  than 
women.  For  one  thing,  they  marry  later. 
For  another  thing,  they  die  earlier. 

§2- 

The  man  who  marries  for  love  alone  is  at 
least  honest.  But  so  was  Czolgosz. 

§3- 

When  a  husband's  story  is  believed,  he  be 
gins  to  suspect  his  wife. 

§4- 

In  the  year  1830  the  average  American  had 
six  children  and  one  wife.  How  time  trans 
values  all  values! 

§5- 

Love  begins  like  a  triolet  and  ends  like  a 
college  yell. 

56, 

A  man  always  blames  the  woman  who  fools 

213 


A  Book  of  Burlesques 


him.     In  the  same  way  he  blames  the  door  he 
walks  into  in  the  dark. 

§7- 

Man's  objection  to  love  is  that  it  dies 
hard;  woman's  is  that  when  it  is  dead  it  stays 
dead. 

§8. 

Definition  of  a  good  mother:  one  who-  loves 
her  child  almost  as  much  as  a  little  girl  loves 
her  doll. 

§9- 

The  way  to  hold  a  husband  is  to  keep  him 
a  little  bit  jealous.  The  way  to  lose  him  is 
to  keep  him  a  little  bit  more  jealous. 

§  10. 

It  used  to  be.  thought  in  America  that  a 
woman  ceased  to  be  a  lady  the  moment  her 
name  appeared  in  a  newspaper.  It  is  no  longer 
thought  so,  but  it  is  still  true. 

§  ii. 

Women  have  simple  tastes.  They  can  get 
pleasure  out  of  the  conversation  of  children  in 
arms  and  men  in  love. 


The  Old  Subject  215 

§12. 

Whenever  a  husband  and  wife  begin  to  dis 
cuss  their  marriage  they  are  giving  evidence 
at  a  coroner's  inquest. 

§13- 

How  little  it  takes  to  make  life  unbearable! 
...  A  pebble  in  the  shoe,  a  cockroach  in  the 
spaghetti,  a  woman's  laugh ! 

§14. 

The  bride  at  the  altar:  "At  last!  At 
last!"  The  bridegroom:  "Too  late!  Too 
late!" 

§15- 

The  best  friend  a  woman  can  have  is  the 
man  who  has  got  over  loving  her.  He  would 
rather  die  than  compromise  her. 

§  16. 

The  one  breathless  passion  of  every  woman 
is  to  get  some  one  married.  If  she's  single, 
it's  herself.  If  she's  married,  it's  the  woman 
her  husband  would  probably  marry  if  she  died 
tomorrow. 

§17- 

Man  weeps  to  think  that  he  will  die  so  soon. 
Woman,  that  she  was  born  so  long  ago. 


216  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

§  18. 

Woman  is  at  once  the  serpent,  the  apple  — 
and  the,  belly-ache. 

§  19- 

Cold  mutton-stew;  a  soiled  collar;  breakfast 
in  dress  clothes;  a  wet  house-dog,  over-affec 
tionate;  the  other  fellow's  tooth-brush;  an  echo 
of  "  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay  " ;  the  damp,  musty 
smell  of  an  empty  house;  stale  beer;  a  mangy 
fur  coat;  Katzenjammer;  false  teeth;  the  criti 
cism  of  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie;  boiled  cab 
bage;  a  cocktail  after  dinner;  an  old  cigar  butt; 
.  .  .  the  kiss  of  Evelyn  after  the  inauguration 
of  Eleanor. 

§20. 

Whenever  a  woman  begins  to  talk  of  any 
thing,  she  is  talking  to,  of,  or  at  a  man. 

§21. 

The  worst  man  hesitates  when-  choosing  a 
mother  for  his  children.  And  hesitating,  he  is 
lost. 

§22. 

Women  always  excel  men  in  that  sort  of 
wisdom  which  comes  from  experience.  To  be 
a  woman  is  in  itself  a  terrible  experience. 


The  Old  Subject  217 

§23. 

No  man  is  ever  too  old  to  look  at  a  woman, 
and  no  woman  is  ever  too  fat  to  hope  that  he 
will  look. 

§24. 

Bachelors  have  consciences.  Married  men 
have  wives. 

§25- 

Bachelors  know  more  about  women  than  mar 
ried  men.  If  they  didn't  they'd  be  married, 
too. 

§26. 

Man  is  a  natural  polygamist.  He  always 
has  one  woman  leading  him  by  the  nose  and  an 
other  hanging  on  to  his  coat-tails. 

§27- 

All  women,  soon  or  late,  are  jealous  of  their 
daughters;  all  men,  soon  or  late,  are  envious  of 
their  sons. 

§28. 

History  seems  to  bear  very  harshly  upon 
women.  One  cannot  recall  more  than  three 
famous  women  who  were  virtuous.  But  on 
turning  to  famous  men  the  seeming  injustice  dis- 


218  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

appears.     One    would    have    difficulty    finding 
even  two  of  them  who  were  virtuous. 

§29. 

Husbands  never  become  good;  they  merely 
become  proficient. 

§30. 

Strike  an  average  between  what  a  woman 
thinks  of  her  husband  a  month  before  she  mar 
ries  him  and  what  she  thinks  of  him  a  year 
afterward,  and  you  will  have  the  truth  about 
him  in  a  very  handy  form. 


The  worst  of  marriage  is  that  it  makes  a 
woman  believe  that  all  men  are  just  as  easy 
to  fool. 

§32. 

The  great  secret  of  happiness  in  love  is  to 
be  glad  that  the  other  fellow  married  her. 

§33- 

A  man  may  be  a  fool  and  not  know  it  —  but 
not  if  he  is  married. 

§34- 
All  men  are  proud  of  their  own  children. 


The  Old  Subject 


Some  men  carry  egoism  so  far  that  they  are 
even  proud  of  their  own  wives. 

§35- 

When  you  sympathize  with  a  married  woman 
you  either  make  two  enemies  or  gain  one  wife 
and  one  friend. 

§36. 

Women  do  not  like  timid  men.  Cats  do  not 
like  prudent  rats. 

§37- 

He  marries  best  who  puts  it  off  until  it  is 
too  late. 

§38. 

A  bachelor  is  one  who  wants  a  wife,  but  is 
glad  he  hasn't  got  her. 

§40. 

Women  usually  enjoy  annoying  their  hus 
bands,  but  not  when  they  annoy  them  by  grow 
ing  fat. 


XIII.-PANORAMAS  OF 
PEOPLE 


XIII.— Panoramas  of  People 


I.— Men 

FAT,  slick,  round-faced  men,  of  the  sort 
who  haunt  barber  shops  and  are  always 
having  their  shoes  shined.  Tall,  gloomy, 
Gothic  men,  with  eyebrows  that  meet  over 
their  noses  and  bunches  of  black,  curly  hair  in 
their  cars.  Men  wearing  diamond  solitaires, 
fraternal  order  watchcharms,  golden  elks'  heads 
with  rubies  for  eyes.  Men  with  thick,  loose 
lips  and  shifty  eyes.  Men  smoking  pale,  spotted 
cigars.  Men  who  do  not  know  what  to  do  with 
their  hands  when  they  talk  to  women.  Hon 
orable,  upright,  successful  men  who  seduce 
their  stenographers  and  are  kind  to  their  dear 
old  mothers.  Men  who  allow  their  wives  to 
dress  like  chorus  girls.  White-faced,  scared- 
looking,  yellow-eyed  men  who  belong  to  socie 
ties  for  the  suppression  of  vice.  Men  who 
boast  that  they  neither  drink  nor  smoke.  Men 
who  mop  their  bald  heads  with  perfumed  hand 
kerchiefs.  Men  with  drawn,  mottled  faces,  in 

223 


224  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

the  last  stages  of  arterio-sclerosis.  Silent, 
stupid-looking  men  in  thick  tweeds  who  tramp 
up  and  down  the  decks  of  ocean  steamers.  Men 
who  peep  out  of  hotel  rooms  at  Swedish  cham 
bermaids.  Men  who  go  to  church  on  Sunday 
morning,  carrying  Oxford  Bibles  under  their 
arms.  Men  in  dress  coats  too  tight  under  the 
arms.  Tea-drinking  men.  Loud,  back-slap 
ping  men,  gabbling  endlessly  about  baseball 
players.  Men  who  have  never  heard  of  Mo 
zart.  Tired  business  men  with  fat,  glittering 
wives.  Men  who  know  what  to  do  when  chil 
dren  are  sick.  Men  who  believe  that  any 
woman  who  smokes  is  a  prostitute.  Yellow, 
diabetic  men.  Men  whose  veins  are  on  the 
outside  of  their  noses.  Now  and  then  a  clean, 
clear-eyed,  upstanding  man.  Once  a  week  or 
so  a  man  with  good  shoulders,  straight  legs 
and  a  hard,  resolute  mouth.  .  .  . 

IL— Women 

Fat  women  with  flabby,  double  chins.  Moon 
faced,  pop-eyed  women  in  little  flat  hats. 
Women  with  starchy  faces  and  thin  vermilion 
lips.  Man-shy,  suspicious  women,  shrinking 
into  their  clothes  every  time  a  wet,  caressing 
eye  alights  upon  them.  Women  soured  and 


Panoramas  of  People  225 

robbed  of  their  souls  by  Christian  Endeavor. 
Women  who  would  probably  be  members  of 
the  Lake  Mohonk  Conference  if  they  were 
men.  Gray-haired,  middle-aged,  waddling  wom 
en,  wrecked  and  unsexed  by  endless,  useless 
parturition,  nursing,  worry,  sacrifice.  Women 
who  look  as  if  they  were  still  innocent  yesterday 
afternoon.  Wromen  in  shoes  that  bend  their  in 
steps  to  preposterous  semi-circles.  Women 
with  green,  barbaric  bangles  in  their  ears,  like 
the  concubines  of  Arab  horse-thieves.  Women 
looking  in  show-windows,  wishing  that  their 
husbands  were  not  such  poor  sticks.  Shapeless 
women  lolling  in  six  thousand  dollar  motor 
cars.  Trig  little  blondes,  stepping  like  Shetland 
ponies.  Women  smelling  of  musk,  ambergris, 
bergamot.  Long-legged,  cadaverous,  hungry 
women.  Women  eager  to  be  kidnapped,  be 
trayed,  forced  into  marriage  at  the  pistol's 
point.  Soft,  pulpy,  pale  women.  Women  with 
ginger-colored  hair  and  large,  irregular 
freckles.  Silly,  chattering,  gurgling  women. 
Women  showing  their  ankles  to  policemen, 
chauffeurs,  street-cleaners.  Women  with  slim- 
shanked,  whining,  sticky-fingered  children 
dragging  after  them.  Women  marching  like 
grenadiers.  Yellow  women.  Women  with  red 
hands.  Women  with  asymmetrical  eyes. 


226  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

Women  with  rococo  ears.  Stoop-shouldered 
women.  Women  with  huge  hips.  Bow-legged 
women.  Appetizing  women.  Good-looking 
women.  .  .  . 

III.— Babies 

Babies  smelling  of  camomile  tea,  cologne  wa 
ter,  wet  laundry,  dog  soap,  Schmierkase.  Babies 
who  appear  old,  disillusioned  and  tired  of  life 
at  six  months.  Babies  that  cry  "Papa !"  to 
blushing  youths  of  nineteen  or  twenty  at  church 
picnics.  Fat  babies  whose  earlobes  turn  out  at 
an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  Soft,  pulpy 
babies  asleep  in  perambulators,  the  sun  shining 
straight  into  their  faces.  Babies  gnawing  the 
tails  of  synthetic  dogs.  Babies  without  necks. 
Pale,  scorbutic  babies  of  the  third  and  fourth 
generation,  damned  because  their  grandfathers 
and  great-grandfathers  read  Tom  Paine. 
Babies  of  a  bluish  tinge,  or  with  vermilion 
eyes.  Babies  full  of  soporifics.  Thin,  carti 
laginous  babies  that  stretch  when  they  are 
lifted.  Warm,  damp,  miasmatic  babies.  Af 
fectionate,  ingratiating,  gurgling  babies:  the 
larva  of  life  insurance  solicitors,  fashionable 
doctors,  Episcopal  rectors,  dealers  in  Mexican 
mine  stock,  hand-shakers,  Sunday-school  super 
intendents,  Hungry  babies,  absurdly  sucking 


Panoramas  of  People  227 

their  thumbs.  Babies  with  heads  of  thick, 
coarse  black  hair,  seeming  to  be  toupees.  Un- 
baptized  babies,  dedicated  to  the  devil.  Eu 
genic  babies.  Babies  that  crawl  out  from  under 
tables  and  are  stepped  on.  Babies  with  lintels, 
grains  of  corn  or  shoe-buttons  up  their  noses, 
purple  in  the  face  and  waiting  for  the  doctor  or 
the  embalmer.  A  few  pink,  blue-eyed,  tight- 
skinned,  clean-looking  babies,  smiling  upon  the 
world. 


XIV.-HOMEOPA  THICS 


XIV. — Homeopathic  s 


i. 

Scene  Infernal. 

During  a  lull  in  the  uproar  of  Hell  two  voices 
were  heard. 

44  My  name,"  said  one,  "  was  Ludwig  van 
Beethoven.  I  was  no  ordinary  musician.  The 
Archduke  Rudolph  used  to  speak  to  me  on  the 
streets  of  Vienna." 

41  And  mine,"  said  the  other,  u  was  the  Arch 
duke  Rudolph.  I  was  no  ordinary  archduke. 
Ludwig  van  Beethoven  dedicated  a  trio  to  me." 

2. 
The  Eternal  Democrat. 

A  Socialist,  carrying  a  red  flag,  marched 
through  the  gates  of  Heaven. 

44  To  Hell  with  rank!"  he  shouted.  44  All 
men  are  equal  here." 

Just  then  the  late  Karl  Marx  turned  a  cor 
ner  and  came  into  view,  meditatively  stroking 
his  whiskers.  At  once  the  Socialist  fell  upon 

231 


232  A  Book  of  Burlesques 

his  knees  and  touched  his  forehead  to  the  dust. 
"  O  Master !  "  he  cried.     u  O  Master,  Mas 
ter!  " 

3- 
The  School  of  Honor. 

A  trembling  young  reporter  stood  in  the  pres 
ence  of  an  eminent  city  editor. 

"  If  I  write  this  story,"  said  the  reporter, 
"  it  will  rob  a  woman  of  her  good  name." 

"  If  you  don't  write  it,"  said  the  city  editor, 
41  I'll  give  you  a  kick  in  the  pantaloons." 

Next  day  the  young  reporter  got  a  raise  in 
salary  and  the  woman  swallowed  two  ounces 
of  permanganate  of  potassium. 

4- 
'Proposed  Plot  For  a  Modern  Novel. 

Herman  was  in  love  with  Violet,  the  wife  of 
Armand,  an  elderly  diabetic.  Armand  showed 
three  per  cent  of  sugar  a  day.  Herman  and 
Violet,  who  were  Christians,  awaited  with  virt 
uous  patience  the  termination  of  Armand's  dis 
tressing  malady. 

One  day  Dr.  Frederick  M.  Allen  discovered 
his  cure  for  diabetes. 


Homeopathic*  233 


$- 

Victory. 

44  I  wooed  and  won  her,"  said  the  Man  of 
His  Wife. 

41  I  made  him  run,"  said  the  Hare  of  the 
Hound. 


XV.-VERS  LIBRE 


XY.-Vers  Libre 


Kiss  me  on  the  other  eye; 
This  one's  wearing  out. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate 


General  I   i 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


